


Death has no Master, but Life has Servants

by Jinchuu21



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinchuu21/pseuds/Jinchuu21
Summary: Another task had been given to him. Not one of prophecy, but of choice. He had long ago accepted his need to help people, to protect those who could not protect themselves. War was all he had known, all he was good at. It was time to help heal. But, he had long ago understood that to save a life, sometimes you had to take one.





	1. Chapter 1

289 AC – Sunspear

Harry Baratheon – The Future Prince

Dorne was a beautiful place. From the Red Mountains to the Greenblood to the Water Gardens, all of them had their special charm. There was a different culture in Dorne than he had been used to, but that was not so bad. They were freer in Dorne. More liberal in their passions and certainly treated their bastards better. No child was held accountable for the nature of its parents. Harry did not have that problem, but it was nice to see that even those that did were not treated badly in Dorne.

If only it wasn't so bloody hot.

Hadrian Baratheon. That is what people called him. He preferred being called 'Harry' for those who were close to him.

He was second brother to the King of the Iron Throne, squire to Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne, and future Prince-Consort to Arianne Martell. His arranged marriage was brought to secure Dorne's fealty to the Crown after his elder brother's rebellion. He along with the bones of Prince Lewyn Martell had brought Dorne to heal. Peace was achieved, even if both parties had done it so begrudgingly.

But, he had not always been so.

He had lived a full life, far longer than many were blessed with. He had lived a life full of magic and wonder. There were hardships and loss. But, those had just made him appreciate the happier memories all the more. He had known the love of not only one woman, but two, who had given him six wonderful children. Both were happy to follow in their parents' footsteps and he was more than happy to support them. One had become an ambassador and the other the Head of the Department of Law. He had been a househusband and philanthropist and was very happy with it. They had grown old together, raised their children together, and had the pleasure of dying together surrounded by their family: six children, twenty-two grandchildren, and four great grandchildren at the time.

He should have been in the afterlife. He should have been with the people who had died attempting to save him, who had given up everything to stop a madman with delusions of grandeur. It was all he could have hoped for when Death finally came for him. But, it was not Death that came for him as he had released his finally breath.

It was Life, or the embodiment of it, that came to greet him. She had come asking for him to perform one more time, to participate in the game Life and Death were bound to play.

He had long ago accepted his fatal flaw. Harry was not the type of person who could say no when people were in need. He had seen the wasteland the world would become if he did nothing, what she had come to him asking him to prevent. A part of him wanted to let them deal with it, to be selfish, be with the family that had waited for him, and await the family that would be with him. Not for a long time he hoped, but all ventured into the afterlife eventually.

But, that was not who he was. And so, he went unto the next great adventure with a promise to those who loved him that he would see them soon. They had waited over a hundred years to see him. What was another hundred?

"Harry." A soft voice flittered through the air.

He knew who had come and turned to meet her.

Arianne Martell had not been the most beautiful girl he had seen when they had first met. In her family alone, her uncle Oberyn's bastards Tyene and Nymeria were prettier than her. Red spots had covered her cheeks from the affliction she had as a child. She had been a pudgy thing, with a chubby face and her short height made her look rounder.

But, as soon as womanhood had hit she had started to come into her own. It was a slow process, but much of her had changed in just a year. The ringlets of black framed her face better as it became more angular, but softly so. The babe's fat had almost completely melted away and started to reveal her womanly curves. Her teats had yet to come, but if they were anything to match her curves then what a set she would have, probably enough to rival his second wife.

Not that Harry would have cared. He had promised to marry her for the peace of the realm. But, just because it was arranged did not mean he would not come to love her as much as he did his previous wives in his past life. He and Arianne were of the close in age physically, only a year apart, but mentally he was much older than her. She was just going through what some of his daughters did at her age: insecurities with physical appearance. He tried to come up with nice things to tell her to help her self-esteem.

He was reminded of a friend he had when he looked at her. His friend had bloomed late, but it had been a glorious kind of beauty she revealed.

"Princess." He greeted back with a small bow of his head. She hated it when he called her by her title. Harry just did it to tease her.

"I am your betrothed Harry. You should call me by my name or your beloved or your dear or something equally sweet." She said as she walked up to him and pouted.

"Of course. Hello Arianne. How are you doing?"

"I would be better if my promised would greet me properly." She replied with a coy smile, looking up at him through her lashes. He was not fooled. She was still young and better than her had done the same. Arianne had a long way to go if she was to successfully ensnare him with her charms. But, the act was endearing though, and albeit cute if he were honest.

Arianne was an adventurous sort. She was curious about pleasures of the flesh and tried with him often. Harry never let it get too far, mostly kisses and, just recently, light petting. It was better to give something than hear her try and guilt him into it. Whether it was genuine or just a tool to manipulate him, he hated hearing her speak negatively about herself. So, Harry made sure to lavish his attention on her whenever possible. Sometimes he wondered if he doing it so well made her pursue him for more.

It was not his fault. He had two wives in his past life and neither was exactly shy about telling him what pleased them. Harry had never been a good student at school, but he was more than willing to learn that from them.

"Yes, how rude of me." He said with a chuckle. Harry bent down to greet her and Arianne eagerly raised herself on her toes to catch his lips.

The desert was a hot place to live, especially as he had been born in the Stormlands. He kept his sides shaved to help keep cool. Harry kept hair at the top of his head to better cushion the helm he wore during training.

Arianne wrapped her arms around his shoulders, a hand coming around to clutch at his naked scalp. She moaned into their kiss and begged at his lips with her tongue for entrance. Harry relented and massaged her as she entered his mouth. He allowed it to go on for a moment before pulled away, giving a playful tug on her bottom lip as they parted. The princess did not like being apart so soon judging from the way she tried to pull him back for more.

"Was there a reason you came to find me?" He asked to her displeasure. She was struggling to tell him, not wanting to. Arianne wanted to punish him for taking breaking away before she wanted. But, he just smiled and kissed her cheek, coaxing her with sweetness.

"A messenger arrived at the gates. There are fanatics again at the hospice."

Harry groaned at the news.

"They aren't hurting anyone. But, they disturb the peace. My uncle has personally gone with some guards. Obara awaits outside for you."

In his first year being fostered in Sunspear under Oberyn's care, Harry had healed Prince Doran of his gout with magic. He could see the brief moments of pain the man had when he moved and felt sorry for him. Everyone had been amazed at seeing magic with their own eyes. Prince Doran had offered him anything he wanted in his gratitude. Harry had requested a hospital be built in the city to render medical aid to the smallfolk.

Lords, ladies, and knights could rely on the maesters they kept in their keeps. But, the smallfolk had no one. Harry opened the hospital and invited the Orphans of the Greenblood, along with other hedge wizards and woods witches, to work and take care of those without maesters. They charged those who could pay, gave discounts with less to give, and helped those with nothing. A few wealthy merchants had complain about it being unfair, but Harry told them to find help elsewhere if they were unsatisfied with their help.

No one had complained again.

Harry liked healing people. The fact that the hospice created revenue of coin for him was just a bonus.

But, when the Faith had found out that they used magic to heal, they were quick to raise alarm. It did not help their case when many of those who worked in the clinic did not pray to the Seven, Harry included. Never mind that the Faith had done nothing to help to poor or needy. The septon and septas had come down to the hospital when one of the hedge wizards was healing a woman with Summer Fever. The wizard was not even using pure magic, but very weak magic in combination with herbs. They had called them heretics, condemned them and bade them to repent.

Harry held no ill against the Faith. They could pray to whom they wished and how they wished. He did not begrudge anyone their prayers or faith. So long as they did not harm his patients, they were welcome. It was the number one rule of the hospital: they turned no one away.

A murderer could have come to them seeking aid and as much as they would have disagreed with his actions, they would have healed him. They would have had guards ready to take him to custody and judgment, but they would heal him until he was strong enough to stand trial.

But, that day, when the septon had scared the people inside the clinic, especially the children, Harry did not stop Obara from breaking the man's nose when he approached threateningly. He shooed the septon and septas and warned them from disturbing the hospital's peace ever again. They had never stepped foot near it again, but Harry had a feeling they encouraged their more fanatical followers to do so in their stead.

Harry went to the corner near his bed and grabbed his sword, a three-and-tenth nameday present from his brother Robert. None of his brothers had shown for the small party the Martell's had given him, but he accepted that it was such a far travel. It would have been a fairly arduous journey for Renly and he was in Storm's End. None had made it, but still they sent letters of their well wishes and gifts.

The sword he had gotten from Robert had a long shallowly curved blade, as Dornish favored the curved sword. Antlers were etched along the steel of the blade. The long bowed hilt, that was almost as long as the blade itself was made of hard wood, embroidered with golden scales that wrapped around until it came to a forward facing and elaborate cobra head. The snake's mouth was open, revealing short fangs and had emeralds set for eyes. The weapon was a cross between a glaive and a sword. It was a little over four feet in length, half that the blade, which was thicker than normal swords used in the other kingdoms, made for cleaving rather than stabbing. It could stab well enough and would leave a very large wound channel, but the shape was and long handle was more suited towards sweeping down a cut from the back of a horse.

Stannis had sent gold for Harry to purchase a sand-steed of the finest quality as well as a letter of intent to name Harry his heir until time came when his wife, Selyse bore him a son. The woman had a miscarriage during their years married and Stannis was probably worried about his legacy should he die. Harry sent back a letter to thank him as well as a description of the sand-steed he had bought.

His horse, Ajax, was a blood red stallion with a mane and tail the color of the midnight sky. He was a strong horse, fast as the wind if Harry pushed him. The sand-steed could run all day if Harry allowed him and was as easily slighted as his brother Stannis was. Magic help him if the stallion did not get a carrot or apple when Harry went to saddle him or at least pay him a visit at least once a week. It was hardly a problem, as Harry loved to ride. The wind in his face and hair, feeling it brush quickly against him made Harry feel so free. If he went fast enough it was almost as if he was flying.

Renly had also sent gold and a letter. He bemoaned the fact he could not attend because of ruling Storm's End. As Renly had never been the studious sort, Harry had no problem believing his little brother had trouble managing the castle. The gold was for whatever he wished, but Renly wanted him to buy clothes of the finest silks. When they next met each other Renly wanted to see the latest fashions of Dorne. Harry had no idea what that had entailed and committed the act of insanity when he asked Arianne, Ellaria, and the Sand Snakes to help with the fact.

It was an amateur mistake. Something Harry should have known since he had been married before. Twice.

"Do you plan on hurting them?" Arianne asked worriedly, seeing him carry his sword over his shoulder. It was far too long to strap to his waist with a sheath. She was not to the type to worry for the people. It was more believing that he would get hurt himself. He found it endearing.

"Not if I don't have to." He said factually. Harry had not made it past the door of his bedchamber when she felt her small hands clutch at his sleeve. Arianne stood with her back to him for a moment before turning, a regal look on her youthful face.

"I forbid you from getting hurt." She imperially commanded. Harry could not stop the grin that spread across his lips.

"As you command princess."

Arianne gave a singular, satisfied nod.

"Give your betrothed a kiss and be off to protect your precious clinic."

Harry complied, giving her a short simple kiss before stepping out past his receiving room and into the hall. He was met with Obara.

Obara Sand was another of Oberyn's bastards, the eldest at seven-and-ten. She lacked much of the beauty her sisters had. She was not as sweet looking as Tyene or as slender as Nymeria, but she was not bad looking. Plain would have been the word Harry used to describe her. Plain brown hair that was kinky and messily braided. She was big boned and well muscled from her training, but that training also sculpted her ass and did nothing to take away from an ample bust.

People might have found her attractive if not for the perpetual scowl, that was only replaced by a maniacal grin.

When he had first opened the hospice and had to venture into the city so much, Oberyn had suggested his daughter be his Sworn Shield. Harry was open to the idea, even if she was young for such a duty. He had seen how damaging she could be in the training yard. Obara was a demon when a spear or whip was in her hands. She had been trained by the Red Viper of Dorne and had beat many men twice her age. Harry had left the decision to her if she would join him. A few had been surprised when Obara had thrown her spear at his feet. Thankful she did not kneel. They may have had heart attacks.

"Harry." Obara greeted with a nod of her head.

"Aren't you lovely today Obara." He said with a grin, liking how he could make the normally unflappable girl blush. Because she was plain, Obara was a stranger to compliments. And because of how she fought on the training yard very few men ever came close enough to flatter her.

Harry had used it against her often.

"Shut up," Obara replied, straightening her back, "let's go deal with these idiots. If we are lucky I'll be able to hit one today." She said shoving servants out of their way as they walked.

He laughed and shook his head.

She is a poor shield, but a great battering ram.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just finishing posting the rest of the chapters here. Mr and Mrs Black is still my main focus, but I have forgotten to finish the uploading of the rest of the chapters. If you haven't left a review on FF.net, leave one here :D

Obara Sand – The Sworn Shield

           

Harry was a healer. No amount of telling her would change Obara’s mind. He used his magic to help those who needed it and enjoyed it. He preferred it. To Harry fighting was just a means to retain peace. He heightened his skills to better protect. There was no thought of glory or fame.

But, that did not mean he wasn’t good at it.

Her father had taken him as a squire, to make him suitable for his future position as prince-consort. Personally, Obara thought Oberyn took Harry as his squire to see the new king twitch at the thought of his little brother being trained by a Dornishman. Rumor was King Robert Baratheon nearly burst a vein from his screaming tantrum when Jon Arryn suggested his brother be married to Princess Arianne and fostered in Sunspear.

It was no secret that Harry was Robert’s favorite brother. He took time from all the whoring and drinking to actually write. They doubted it was him doing the writing, but he at least dictated to someone what to write. There was also the sword the king had gifted him that probably cost more than some knight’s full suits of armor.

She had helped her father in Harry’s tutelage of spear and sword. Both were surprised at how well someone so young took to combat.

Harry was fast, incredibly so. He moved without fear, without hesitation, and attacked with a singular purpose: to end it quickly. He had none of the flair her father was prone to. Did not banter with opponents other than her and Oberyn. Harry was a little reckless, always charging head first, but his speed and reflexes gave him that leeway. There had been times when Obara had been put on her back foot when Harry came in for the assault. He had even given her father a surprise or two. He was not as good with a spear as either of them, but he was certainly better than most.

Harry truly excelled, would surpass her father one day, in the sword. He preferred two-handed swords, forgoing a shield, and used his speed. Harry could flow with a sword. Oberyn had compared it to a Water Dancer he had seen traveling through the Free Cities, if bravos used something akin to half-glaives. Harry moved as if he was dancing, moving like water from one movement to another. He never moved more than he had to, but each movement was natural. Calculated, yet natural. Which was ironic because the young man could not dance to save his life. If he had the mind to, Obara had no doubt Harry could be placed himself high on the list of Dorne’s greatest swordsmen, a little below or right next to the late Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.

Not that Harry needed the fame.

Within a year of him opening his clinic, Harry had become more loved amongst the people than a septon or knight. They parted from his way as if touching him was some grave sin. When he talked to them, questioning about their health or the well being of a family member he had healed, their eyes sparkled and smiles grew so wide it looked as if it would split their faces apart. He was damn near holy in their eyes.

‘Harry the Healer’ they called him as they lavished him with praise. It was no fewer than once a day that Harry declined some gift from the people they passed. Bakers would come out offering fresh bread, vintners would follow saying good bread needed good wine, even women from the pillow houses were abnormally polite. None too few had offered to show him the pleasures of the flesh, but not in the same way they normally accosted those who walked by. When Harry smiled at them, the women who were hardly maids blushed and giggled like ladies in waiting.

But, Obara supposed that was what happened when you healed their children and family on a regular basis. People came from the very edges of the city to see Harry about some affliction or another. People came from other keeps to see him, traveled from as far as Blackmont to have Harry heal them.

And the people loved him for that.

It was no different when they went to disperse the fanatics that threatened the peace of Harry’s hospice. It was not the first time they had tried. The first time they had tried, the public had damn near stoned them to death with dirt clods. But, as that displeased Harry the people of Sunspear had never done it again.

Oberyn stood near the entrance, leaning against the wall with his spear, half a dozen guards in front of him hands on their swords. It was another one of Harry’s rules. Weapons were not to be brandished, if it could be helped, inside the hospital. He knew that some guards carried spear and would allow them entrance, but only after a stern warning that no unnecessary harm was to be caused. In front of the castle guards were able-bodied strong men, civilians who held clubs in their hands and gave the gathered fanatics menacing looks. They were probably people who had been healed, who had family that had been healed, or were currently being treated.

She gave her father a nod, which he returned with a grin, before giving Harry the same greeting.

“Healer.” Came the greeting of the men standing with clubs, as they bowed their head in respect.

“Thank you, good men. I appreciate you trying to keep the peace. But, I have told you that you need not put yourself in harm’s way.” Grown men put their heads down in admonishment. Obara would have laughed if not for the fact Harry would have glowered at her for it. Still, almost all of them were one and half times as wide as Harry, with a head more in height. Yet, they looked like children being admonished by their father.

“Go. Be with your families. If they are inside, you will leave your weapons at the reception room. Do we understand each other?” It was not really a question, but they nodded their heads like boys who had just been chastised for sneaking sweets before sulking off in their different directions.

It happened in a flash. She could have blinked and missed it. All the warmth and jovial nature Harry had with the men who protected his clinic had vanished. If she were a lesser woman, Obara would have gulped at the look on his face. His eyes were hard. His lips that were normally always curved into some kind of smile were set into a thin, firm line. It did not take a person of high intellect to know that Harry was displeased.

It was hard for Obara not to smirk at the fact.

_Maybe, I will get to hit someone today._

“Why do you disturb the peace here? This is a place of healing. I have warned you once not to cause trouble.” Harry said firmly in a threatening tone.

“This is a public street. We do no harm standing here.” A man, the spokesperson for the collective, said with a sneer. Obara stepped forward with a snarl. The gall of the man annoyed her. It was only Harry’s insistence they not be harmed that allowed them to stand where he did. Otherwise, they would have been drowned in the harbor and witnesses would be conveniently hard to find.

Her spear lowered and hovered dangerous close to him. His sneer lightened, but he did not back down. Instead he presented his throat in mockery. She was tempted to run him through for that alone, but Harry’s sword across her chest halted her advance. Obara snorted at the man and returned his sneer. 

“I have just said you disturb the peace. So, yes, you do, do harm. You want to stand there and protest? Fine. You want to carry signs and proclaim us helping those who need it as heretics? Fine.” Harry growled. “But, you will do so quietly. There are those inside who are in need of rest or are recovering. You do nothing to help their condition. They are my patients and I will not stand for you hindering their recovery.”

“We will not be silenced! We loyal to the Faith of the Seven will loudly condemn those who allow witchcraft to be practiced on them. Their souls are in danger and you are the one to do it. Harry the Healer,” he scoffed, “Harry the Hellish I call you! For that is where you will send them if this travesty is allowed to continue!”

Obara felt it before she saw it. The air became…thicker, more humid. A weight surrounded her from all sides. She had experienced something like it before, but it was better last time. When Harry used his power to heal it was a feeling of lightness, an almost euphoric feeling to those he touched and those around him. He glowed a comforting golden hue and it emitted from like he was the sun. It was an indescribable feeling really. Obara could not find the words to describe how…light she felt. It was like a mother’s warm embrace.

But, there was no lightness to Harry as he stared at the gathered mob. His eyes turned bright white with a gold fiery aura around them. He was surrounded in it, but instead of the sun, his golden hue slowly danced like holy fire. Even as she stepped back, she could feel the heat that came. His sword was covered in it and made him look all the more intimidating. It was no embrace, but the feeling of the guilty when being marched to the chopping block.

“So you will continue to disturb this place of peace? This place of healing?” Harry asked, in a voice not quite his own. He still sounded like himself, but it was sonorous. His words echoed in the wind and reverberated in her bones. It was as if Harry was speaking to her very soul.

“W-w-we…will…continue…to preach…the…one...true…Faith.” The man stuttered as he looked upon Harry in his glory. Those behind him were not as sure, but stood firm in their numbers.

“Be gone then.” Harry said in a whisper that was clearly heard. They hesitated to follow his command. They stood defiant.

"Be gone!” Harry slammed his sword into the ground. The earth shook, as if someone had picked it up and gave it a quick jerk. The light surrounding Harry exploded outward and blew the protesters off their feet as if they were caught in the most powerful gust.

Obara could not see any harm to them, only the shock of the push. Like all cowards, they were quick to flee. They scrambled, leaving each other behind in the face of Harry’s righteous fury. The smallfolk jeered at them as they ran past, cheering Harry at the same time. It mattered little to them what he had done. They had seen him do great deeds with his magic, just not in a show of force.

The people came to him slowly, calling out to him. They reached out to touch him as if some of his power would leak unto them if they did so.

“Off with you, off with you.” An old man chastised lightly, coming from the inside of the clinic. “Healer Harry has matters to attend to.”

“Maegar, how fare the patients in the clinic?” Harry asked turning around the address the old man.

He was a hedge wizard born in the Reach and had come to learn and hopefully teach Harry some of his craft when whispers had spread of magic being used to heal in Sunspear. And Harry had learned much from the man on herbs used to treat common and deadly illness alike. Nothing as extravagant as the potions used by maesters, but simple remedies that smallfolk could readily afford to pay him for.

“Very well, Healer.” Maegar replied respectfully, approaching with the aid of his gnarled walking stick. “But, I am afraid your display has awaken many. They are all overcome with excitement.”

“Yes, sorry about that,” Harry said sheepishly, scratching at the back of his scalp. “I came here to put down the disturbance and seem to have caused one myself.”

Maegar gave a soft, rasping laugh and patted Harry on the shoulder.

“We must break a few eggs to make an omelet, Healer. Some of the children wanted to see you anyway. They crave for more of those strange stories you tell.”

Harry did tell strange stories. Fairytales of castles full of children who learned magic together near a forest full of centaurs, unicorns, and gigantic spiders. Their favorite was about a boy pulling a magical sword out of a hat and slaying a snake the size of a dragon whose eyes could kill on sight and had venom with the toxicity of a thousand cobras. There was one about a boy fighting off a hundred wraiths with the power of love and light that scared away the demons. Ironically, the creature of the light took form in the shape of a stag. A tale of three friends who adventured across the lands to find items that held the soul of an evil sorcerer.

The children could not get enough. Some who lived near by came just to hear Harry tell his tales. They all wanted to believe they could be the heroes in those stories, be child-heroes to rid the world of evil. And Harry, the doting idiot that he was, let them. He let them all believe they could be brave warriors. That they did not have to be knights and lords to do great things. It was a dream. A fantasy no realer than the stories he told.

‘ _What truly belong to us if not our own dreams?’_ he has said to her once when she had brought it up. It was times like those that she questioned how old he was truly or what kind of stories he had been read as a child. From the way he spoke sometimes, it was as if his parents had read him nothing but life lessons and books on philosophy. Her father was twice his age and did not speak such wisdom. Her uncle was four times his age and did not say things to them so profound.

“Well, I don’t believe I have anything that currently demands my attention. We cannot disappoint the children can we?” Harry said with a large grin.

“Of course not, Healer. Of course not.”

“I am not sure how I feel about my squire just gallivanting off into the city and ignoring his duties to me?” Oberyn jumped in. He had a grin to match Harry’s; making it rather obvious he was teasing him.

“Let me help you. You feel glad.” Harry jested back.

“But who is going to clean my armor? Take care of my horses? Sharpen my sword and spears? I mean that’s what squires are supposed to do. It’s tradition.” Oberyn whined.

“The stable hand will feed your horses. Whoever cleaned your armor before you had a squire will continue to do so. I am responsible for the hospice and all the patients in it. Their health trumps tradition. Any other questions?” Harry explained as they walked into the clinic.

“I know that already Harry. It was a jest. You have become much less fun since my brother gave you the clinic.” Her father sighed. Obara gave him a quick tap with her elbow. He teased too much.

“You’ve even turned my own daughter against me. What is a man to do?” He put the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to faint like a maid. She had wondered why Harry had not taken the opening when Oberyn mentioned his spear.

_Ellaria polishes your spear enough, too old to have decent wood, not interested in spears, only in sheathes? Nothing?_

Obara spotted the reason.

A group of children had gathered and were laughing at her father’s antics. They all bowed, the girls doing their best to curtsy. They only gave him their attention for a moment before jumping up and hounding Harry. ‘Healer Harry’ they shouted before Harry gently shushed them.

“That’s where they all went!” Helena, a portly woman who was a midwife to the clinic exclaimed. She was a sweet woman from Pentos, a very motherly figure, but an overbearing one. “Healer, the children are supposed to be in bed for midday meal. They will have to eat and take their medicine before you give them their stories.”

The collective ‘aw’ elicited a chuckle from those grown. Still, the children looked up at Harry, hoping he would overturn the midwife’s decision.

“Go back to your beds, little ones. I will tell stories later on in the day. Midwife Helena will gather you. Okay?”

They were clearly disappointed, but grumbled their consent. Helena had herded the children like one would sheep, fixing their hospice gowns.

“I will not take all this grumbling. Growing children must eat. You will not grow on stories alone.” They heard her admonish them.

“A bit…” Oberyn started, but did not finish.

“Helena is a good midwife, Prince Oberyn,” Maegar assured, “A bit overbearing, a tad too motherly, but she has the children’s best interest at heart.”

“That is all anyone will say about her.” Harry said. “What requires my attention at the moment, Maegar?”

“I’m pleased to say there are no patients that require your attention at the moment. But, it is with deep regret to inform you that the expense report is due in in two weeks time. You will need to review the documents left by Prince Doran’s accountant and finalize it before submission to the prince, Healer.”

Harry and Obara groaned. Harry because he hated doing paperwork. It was so menial and tedious. Plus, the accountant her uncle had sent was a weasel of a man who made himself far more important than he was. She had told Harry to replace him, but Harry would not. For as many headaches he gave Harry, the man was good at his job, just very mouthy.

Obara groaned because she would have to stay with him. She appreciated what Harry did, admired it even, but her life as his Sworn Shield was incredibly boring. And she could not even release her stress in the training yard, as their time there was too short, with Harry always going to the clinic.

“On another note,” her father interjected, “We will have to come up with a better moniker than that. Harry the Healer is a great name for you now, but hardly something you can carry when you become a knight.”

“I am a healer and not yet a knight. Even when I do become a knight, Ser Harry will do. When I marry to Arianne, it will be Prince Harry. What difference does it make?” Harry asked with a roll of his eyes. He made to walk away, but Oberyn grabbed him by the back of his collar and held him in place.

“Oh, no you don’t. We must finish this. I don’t want to come up with something on the spot when you are knighted.”

“Call me Ser Harry the Pink Unicorn for all I care. Just nothing hyphenated. I have paperwork to do, Oberyn.” Harry struggled. It was so comical that Maegar chuckled his olden laugh and Obara cracked a smile.

“Surely you are joking. Your knightly name represents me as well. The Red Viper of Dorne cannot have knighted his squire The Pink Unicorn of Dorne or something as equally ridiculous as a hyphenated name. It must be something that embodies you, but must also strike fear and respect into those who hear it.” Oberyn said, yanking again at Harry as he took a step away.

“Oberyn. I understand you don’t know the banes of paperwork as your brother does all of it. But, let me assure you it is a slow and painful torture. I wish to be over with it quickly, so I may tell the children their stories.”

 “A pox on your paperwork!” Oberyn exclaimed, only to be thwacked in the stomach by Harry.

“This is a hospice, speak at a reasonable level.” Harry chided.

Obara would have thought any other man a fool to strike the Red Viper of Dorne, even lightly. Her father was not a man to take such things lightly. The only one he allowed to hit him was Ellaria and whores. That was only if he was feeling particularly frisky.

_I hate how I know that…_

“Like the reasonable level you spoke earlier?” Her father asked with a raised brow.

“I was outside.” Harry grumbled sheepishly.

“Of course, you are the Healer. You can do no wrong. You fart rainbows, birds swoop down to lace flowers in your hair in the morning, and your cock is made of gold with hair of silk.”

Obara made a face at the very poor metaphor. Harry was of the same mind because his face was twisted at the ridiculousness.

“How does that even make sense? What good would a cock of gold do? I mean…how would you even feel anything? Wouldn’t it be cold and uncomfortable for the woman on it?”

She almost slapped her face at Harry’s reply.

_That’s what bothered you!_

Her father squinted in contemplation. Many times he opened his mouth just to close it. He let go of Harry and cupped his chin in thought.

“It made sense at the time,” he waved Harry away dismissively, “the point is Ser Harry the Benevolent sounds pretty good or maybe, The Witchdoctor of Dorne Ser Harry. No, no, that doesn’t sound right.”

Oberyn paced in the waiting room in contemplation, mumbling to himself. He seemed to forget they were present.

“Harry? You’re still here? Don’t you have an audit to do?” He asked. Obara was surprised he could keep a straight face. “You are responsible for this hospice Harry. You shouldn’t be skirting your duties.”

Harry gaped at her father for a moment before spinning on his heals and throwing his hands into the air. Maegar followed after him at a more sedate place.

“Why do I put up with you?” He asked to no one.

“Because you’re my squire and you love me!” Her father shouted down the halls. “Don’t deny it Harry! It’s bad for your health to hold these things in!” He guffawed when Harry gave him the bowman’s salute. It took the old man to reach up with his walking stick to make Harry bring the gesture down.

“I just love how feisty he can be sometimes.” Oberyn said with a shake of his head.

“Sometimes I wonder how I am the child to you?” Obara sighed.

“Oh, you just don’t understand.”

“Understand what?” She questioned. “You tease him for your enjoyment. What else is there?”

“Harry is still young. He should be allowed to act his age. He should be riding horses, sparring in the training yard–“

“He does train in the yard.” She interjected, but her father went on as if she had said nothing.

“–getting into trouble, traveling the Free Cities, and having sex, copious amounts of sex. But, he spends all his time training or here. It is not an uncommon occurrence for your cousin to bemoan her betrothed working too much and not spending enough time with her. I find myself not liking it either. I mean if he was learning in a pillow house, I could forgive him. But, to work…” Her father shivered and she could only sigh. She loved him, truly she did. But, sometimes…

“He does good here. I will speak to her about venturing with him to the clinic.”

“Your uncle does not like the idea. She has asked before. There are too many unforeseen variables to allow the Princess of Dorne to meander through the city.”

“Then speak to him on it.” She did not know why she was putting so much work into her cousin’s happiness. Yes, she loved the girl, but if her cousin wanted to visit she would.

“I shall. But, I do have a question for you.”

“Yes?” She sighed questioningly, knowing she would not like it. Her father was never the one to ask serious questions.

“Harry is a young man. A handsome young man.”

“And?” Obara did not like what her father was hinting. She understood what he meant. Harry was an attractive young man. Shorter than her, but that was expected given he had only become a man at four-and-ten. She liked the way he cut his hair. He did not keep it long like some men, did not wear it like a woman. It was basic, clean, and did not require constant maintenance. The way a man should have his hair. He was broad shouldered, with the hint of a powerful chest, and a face nice enough to look at. But, she did not like where she believed her father was headed.

“Why have you not taken him abed? I’m sure your cousin would appreciate you helping break him in.”

_I knew it…_

She resisted the urge to punch him. The same urge she got when Harry complimented her teasingly. 

“Because he is three years my junior,” Obara hissed at him, not liking the mischievous gleam in his eyes. If he were anyone else, she would have driven her spear into it. “And he is my cousin’s betrothed. They have not been even been together yet. Considering how much she clings to him I doubt she would appreciate it if I took their first time together.”

“I was just asking.” Oberyn held up his hands in surrender.

“Why do you care anyway?” She asked scathingly.

“I don’t really. You can lay with whomever you wish. You, Nymeria, and Tyene are all considered grown women. I want you to learn how to make decisions for yourselves. I was just curious because, though you hide it well, you do blush around him. Is it his dreamy eyes?” Her father mockingly swooned as he laid his head on her shoulder. She elbowed him in the gut with a grunt.

“If you are so curious about which of your daughters will lie with your squire, talk to Tyene.”

“Hm, I would have thought Nymeria. Harry always looked like the type to fancy older women. Maybe that is just me projecting me at his age. He certainly spends enough time with her. Then again, that is just training.  Anyways, continue.”

Obara was not one for gossip. She was not the type who would fit well in sowing circles that were so popular in the north. Useless ways of spending time were maids and ladies in waiting sowed and drank wine while they chattered around talking about what attribute they admired on a man.

She was Obara Sand.

If she wanted a man or woman, she grabbed them by cock or cunt and told them so. She did not need to giggle amongst other women and wonder.

_Besides, Harry?_

He was pleasing to look at, but he was too…it would have been like fucking a septon. She admired that he fought well. Admired his strength and prowess with a blade. But, he was like a…septon…who knew how to kill.

_Yes, that is the best description._

She looked to Harry and saw someone great, but was not to be touched. He was a gentle soul, mostly, and brought her comfort: a spiritual and platonic kind of comfort. While Obara would not lie and say she had not thought about it, especially when his robes were off while he trained in the yard and his skin glistened with sweat in the sun, the thought just made her…uneasy.

They trained together. They bantered. They rode horses together and Harry would admonish her for using her spurs to roughly. They had their niche. It was a good niche. One they were both perfectly fine with.

But, it would have been a lie to say she did not dream of him. They were just not sexual in nature.

Obara dreamed he would be the best swordsman in all of Dorne and she would be the best spearman. They would fight together side-by-side in a formation with their spears at the ready, prepared to skew all those who would stand against them.

Or, they would trample their enemies with horses as Dornish cavalry with Harry scything through the opposition like a farmer his wheat with his sword-glaive. The Seven Kingdoms, the entire world would see them on their sand-steeds, Harry clad in his golden glow and armor with her in copper-coated steel, and they would know the Sword and Spear of Dorne descended upon them.

Maybe, they would be both. She would lead the infantry while Harry led the cavalry charge. She would cause their enemies to route and he would ride them down. She would fight for glory and honor. Harry would fight for justice. And they would have all three.

That is what she dreamed of when she thought of Harry. That was the reason for her blushes. The reason shivers crawled up and down her spine when he was near.

She did not like gossip, but gossiping with her father would turn his nose elsewhere. It was easier for her to do so instead of explain. How in the world would she explain?

She almost felt bad for sicking their father on her. The man would be insufferable.

Almost.

“You know Arianne and Tyene share everything.”

“Ah, yes. They still think I do not know when the sneak skins of wine from the kitchen.” Oberyn chuckled.

She felt a little bad. Obara had just thrown her sister underneath a moving horse cart with words she did not even know to be fact, just speculation. It was true that Arianne and Tyene shared everything. Whether they plotted to ensnare Harry together was as much known to Obara as how Harry did his magic. But, it would keep her father from broaching such a ridiculous subject with her again.

“Then what do you think of Harry? Why do you blush when he compliments you? What he says is not a lie. You are one of the finest spearmen in Sunspear. I would wager on you over many of the guards in our House in a duel.”

She did her best not to preen. It was compliments like those that Obara knew Oberyn was her father. Only a father could be so loving. Well, Harry had said those compliments to, but that was different.

Obara was hesitant to tell him. It seemed like such a childish thing, a fantasy. But, as he looked upon her so openly, so endearingly, Obara had caved. To her surprise her father just grinned wider and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“It is a good dream to have. I’m sure Harry would be honored to fight beside you. You will bring honor and glory to Dorne one day, daughter. Do not seek it. It will come easier when you are not looking.” He advised.

Obara could do nothing else, but nod.

“Besides there are other things for you to experience. Maybe you will find yourself liking to be a mother. If Arianne is willing to share Harry with Tyene, maybe she will allow for Harry to give you a child. They would be strong children and I could train them just as I have done both of you. I have always wanted grandchildren to spoil. I could just give them back when I was done with my fun.”

Obara gave in to the urge to strike him. It was in the arm and only half her strength, but it was satisfying to feel her fist collide into something and hear him hiss in pain.

The moment had been broken. Obara stalked off to find her charge. Maybe he would let her terrorize his accountant.

“Grandchildren daughter, at least two of them! I want you to know how I got my grey hairs at one-and-thirty!” Ignoring a midwife who had the nerve to shush him.

_Why have the gods inflicted such a father upon me?_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 


	3. Chapter 3

** 289 AC – Sunspear **

Oberyn Martell – The Red Viper of Dorne

He had not originally liked the idea of a Baratheon marrying into his family. The very notion had made him froth at the mouth. It was the Baratheon king who denied them their justice for his sister, niece, and nephew. Robert Baratheon that had left Clegane, Lorch, and Tywin Lannister walk away without repercussion.

Oberyn had done his best to talk his brother out of it. He had spoken as sweetly as he would to seduce a woman for his brother to see reason. When that did not work he had raged. Unleashed a string of curses that would have made the saltiest of Dornish men blush and septas bleed from their ears. Then, he had begged. Did everything short of actually falling to his knees and stretching out his hands.

But, it had all been for naught.

Once his brother’s mind had been made to something, it was as solid as steel.

Harry had been a child when he came to them, only nine years of age. He showed no fear, stood in front of them humbly, genuinely sad for what had befallen his family. But, for as sorry as he was, Harry was not afraid. Of course, Oberyn knew there was no reason for the young boy to be afraid. They did not hurt children in Dorne. Oberyn would not place the king’s guilt on Harry’s shoulders.

But, other children would have been afraid.

He could not change his brother’s mind, so Oberyn had done the only thing he could have done. He made the boy his page. He would teach Harry what it meant to be a man, a good man, the kind of man who would not allow the rape and slaughter of innocents to go unpunished.

He still remembered the day he decided.

**FLASHBACK**

A year had past and Oberyn watched the young boy from the shadows. He had a guard attend to the boy’s combat training, wanting to spend some time with his lover and daughters. The day had been going well until Obara had burst into Sarella’s nursing chambers, her brown hair matted to her forehead with sweat. His oldest daughter had tried to speak between heaving breaths, but the words ‘Harry’, ‘trouble’, and ‘tilt yard’ were clear enough for Oberyn to understand.

It was with long, dangerous strides that he stalked through the halls after telling Obara to fetch his spear. Whatever he had been expecting to encounter at the training yard was not what Oberyn wanted to see. A small part of him was hoping Harry had been causing the trouble.

But, it was not.

The guard he had assigned to teach Harry in his place had recruited a few friends it had seemed. They circled around him with blunted steel spears and proper Dornish shields, while Harry had a simple wooden stick. It looked more like the handle of a broom than a training spear. He was covered in sweat, his shirt off and skin pinking under the stare of the sun. His body was sinewy, muscles coiled like a snake.

He looked worse for wear.

The boy tried to brave on, look unaffected, but Oberyn’s eyes were trained. There was large gash of split skin on the boy’s cheek, from the corner of his lips nearly to his ear. A testament that blunted metal was still dangerous. It would not cut too well, but it was still capable of breaking skin. Harry’s leg was hurt, the boy limping at he swiveled one way or another to keep his eyes on all the guards that surrounded him like he was an animal.

He looked the very vision of it, a wound animal being corralled by hunters. And Oberyn knew that it made Harry, just like all animals, all the more dangerous.

Even as the guards teased and ruthlessly toyed with the boy, even as Obara was handing him his spear, even as his lover, niece, and other children had showed, it was Harry that captivated Oberyn’s attention.

Harry held his ‘spear’ tightly, using sliding strikes and wild swings to keep his opponents at bay. His teeth were bared, like a snake bearing its fangs as it readied to strike, the dripping blood making him look all the more grotesque and wrathful. He was wild, angry, and ferocious. His blood was showing through; the Baratheon fury was rearing its head.

It was a beautiful, if albeit strange sight.

His eldest daughter was shoving his spear into his hand, his lover was harshly whispering for him to intervene, but Oberyn just raised his hand to still them all. He wanted to see what young Harry would do. The child was in no danger now that Oberyn was near, but something compelled Oberyn to watch.

He wanted to see.

The guard he had put in charge of Harry’s training for the day attacked first. The blunted metal spear came quick, poised to skew in Harry like he was a flank of lamb. The boy charged recklessly towards the threat, barely twisting his body around the spear. Harry roared his fury and retaliated, his spear arm shooting forward like the string of a bow. The wooden stick in his hand struck with the force of an arrow and drilled into the guard’s forehead. The man’s head snapped back, his skull being saved by the helm he wore. But, he stumbled back to his knees dazed.

The attack was more of luck than skill, having only landed because the guard was sloppy. But, the speed, the power…that was all Harry.

A grin spread across Oberyn’s face.

The boy was unafraid.

That was not something that could truly be taught. Techniques and conditioning could be imparted. But, fearless, courage, those were made from within.

Many more lessons were needed, but Harry was a diamond in the rough. Oberyn knew that with enough polish and tending to, Harry could be a jewel worthy of a crown…in terms of fighting at least.

As the two other guards went to avenge their fallen comrade, Oberyn stepped from the shadows and began to clap, halting the men’s advance.

“Well struck, young Harry. Excellent use of speed and power, but your form leaves much to be desired. Don’t you gentlemen agree?”

“Prince Oberyn.” The three guards and Harry said with a bow of their heads in greeting. He ignored the greetings and instead stood in front of Harry. The adrenaline was wearing off and the boy looked ready to collapse where he stood, but he willfully stayed up right. The cut on his face had leaked as far as his collarbone. There had been a lot, but nothing too threatening to his health.

“You look need of tending too,” Oberyn stated unnecessarily and Harry’s look spoke of it. Still, the older man smiled and beckoned his niece forward. “Arianne, would you show Harry here to the maester.”

The princess of Dorne nodded her head, even as her face looked torn between wanting to look worried and blushing. Her eyes were focused on the wound on his pretty face and Harry turned away slightly so she could not see. Oberyn placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder as he limped forward.

“It will be a good looking scar. All women love battle scars.” He said with a comforting grin. It make have been more lecherous than comforting, but it was the thought that counted.

Harry just grinned a macabre grin and Arianne’s own blush heightened.

Before the young man left with his niece, who taken the silk shawl she used to cover her body and pressed it against Harry’s cut, Harry turned to the guards and spat his blood on the ground. He did nothing but laugh as he saw the men’s eyes widen.

It was a small, simple gesture, but such things had meaning. Oberyn was amused because the guards looked more insulted than worried. And they should have been more concerned. They had cornered Harry, the brother of Robert Baratheon. They had hunted him and he had survived. The slight would not go unforgotten.

But, that was in the future.

They would have more immediate problems to deal with.

The princess and his pseudo-ward had not made it halfway down the hallway when his eldest stomped towards the men, his spear clutched in her hands.

Obara lacked much of the beautiful her sisters had. Even Tyene, who was many years younger, was more beautiful to look at. That did not mean his eldest was ugly. But, she was rather plain looking. She did not have the midnight black hair of Nymeria, as hers was brown and kinky. Obara did not have the sweet and innocent look of Tyene, but when her blood was up and her face twisted into a snarl, his daughter reminded him of a warrior queen who looked beautiful in her fury.

As much as he wanted to see how much his daughter had improved in her training, Oberyn halted Obara’s advances. She threw him a look that was both questioning and withering.

Not that Oberyn could blame her.

He was well aware of Obara’s…fondness of Harry. The boy was younger, true, but he was also the only one to treat Obara no different than her sisters. It did not matter to him that she was average looking. In the few months he had been around, Harry openly showed his appreciation for her prowess with a spear and complimented her often. It was where Oberyn had gotten the idea to compare Obara to a warrior queen. He had heard the younger man mention it once before. His eldest had played it off the compliments, punching the lad in the shoulder and calling him stupid. But, Oberyn had seen the traces of her appreciation for the flattery.

It was strange to Oberyn. The boy was young and inexperienced with everything in life. There was no way that Harry did not know why he was being fostered, but his outlook was so…open and cheerful. It drew his family in like moths to a flame. Even his lover Ellaria was fond of the boy who was equal parts charming, respectful, and witty. It helped that he was difficult to make blush. The girls loved trying to see who would be the first to do it.

A quick nudge of his shoulder brought Oberyn from his musings. Obara looked to him before motioning with her eyes to the guards. He rolled his eyes at his daughter’s insistence. Oberyn was going to deal with it. There was no need for her to push.

“You had your asses handed to you by a boy.” He said with a hint of mockery towards the guard. “Maybe I should have him train you instead.”

The man made to reply, but Oberyn just waved his excuses away dismissively.

“There are more important questions to answer. Why was young Harry not given a shield? Why were you and your men using steel? Perhaps most importantly, why were there three of you against one child? I asked you to train him, not hunt him down like some animal.”

There was not question as to his outlook on the entire spectacle. His anger was quite plain, even if his tone did not reflect it. He had learned that a calm anger was much more frightening.

The guards were all looking at each other for answers. But, they quickly came to the conclusion that they had none that would please him. They all quickly dropped to a knee.

“My prince, we did as we thought you wanted.” The one he had put in charge said, his head bowed in deference.

The words made Oberyn’s eye twitch.

It was an insult of the highest order and he did not consider himself a man easily insulted. There were times he thought his brother weak, but at certain times he envied his brother. His brother the patient, calm man he was. Doran would have thrown the men into a cell for endangering their ward for a few weeks. But, Oberyn was not his brother. His blood was every bit of Dorne: hot and unforgiving.

“May I see your helm?” He asked to the man in charge. Oberyn hefted the copper covered steel in his hands before turning to one of the others. He struck as fast as his moniker.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five strikes to the guard’s helm covered head, following him as he fell to the ground. Once the man’s face was groaning and successfully bloodied, Oberyn threw the helm back to its owner. He wrapped his blood-covered fingers around the guard’s face.

“We are not Lannisters. We do not blame children for the sins of their fathers or brothers. We most certainly do not harm them,” He seethed, “If I so much as hear whispers of this happening again…the boy is my squire, he is entitled to a certain amount of respect. If he is not,” Oberyn leaned in close with narrowed eyes, “We will see how well you do against someone who knows how to wield live steel.”

There was no question as to whom the guard would be facing and they were all equally fearful of the prospect. No one took a challenge from the Red Viper lightly. The guards nodded their compliance all too quickly with vigor.

“Good,” Oberyn said with a smile, all signs of anger vanishing just as quickly as he appeared. “Now, leave.”

The guards picked up their comrade and rushed away from the prince of Dorne, not wanting to be subject to his ire again.

Oberyn was not given a moments peace and his daughters attacked him with questions.

“Since when has Harry been your squire?” Nymeria asked.

“Will Harry become a knight like in the stories?” Tyene gushed.

“I fight better than him, can I be a squire like Harry?” Obara questioned.

Oberyn laughed as they bound up to him and circled all of them into a hug. They were not so big he could not do it yet.

“Since right now and we shall see.” He answered all three of them.

“Children. Leave us.” Ellaria said, her tone conveying there to be no argument. Obara looked ready to, but a hand from him and Nymeria stilled her lips. He thanked the gods for his second child not inheriting his temper. Oberyn did not know what he would do if all of them were as brash and hotheaded as his eldest.

Ellaria Sand was not the most beautiful woman he had lain with, not even the most beautiful he had seen. She had a wonderful body and brown hair and eyes. Her skin was the common tawny shade in Dorne. There was something eye-catching about her, but she was no great beauty.

Still, Oberyn loved her all the same. More than he had his other lovers.

“What are you doing Oberyn?” She asked when all of his children had left, Obara having to nearly be dragged.

“I am not sure what you mean.” He replied, picking up the stick Harry had dropped.

“I know you are spontaneous, it is one of the qualities I love about you. But, making the boy your squire? I do not understand it.” Ellaria said a little suspiciously.

“Understand it? Did you not see him?” Oberyn exclaimed excitedly.

“I saw a stubborn, scared boy being toyed with by guards.”

Oberyn shook his head. He loved the woman, but she was no fighter. No killer. It took warriors to see the traits that made a good warrior, let alone appreciate them.

He saw that in Harry. She had said he was stubborn and that was true. Placid men did not fight. They swayed with the wind or were carelessly tossed aside by the waves. One had to be stubborn, at least a certain amount of it, to be great warriors. They needed to stubbornly trek forward towards death, to stare at it and not be cowed. People called it courage and bravery. And it was, but it was also stubbornness.

Yes, the boy had been scared. What ten-year-old child would not have been?

But, he had held his ground and attacked when he could have just as easily run. He was not intimidated. Harry did not run.

“That was not what I saw,” Oberyn stated, “I saw a boy rage against three grown men. Stand his ground and refuse to be beaten. I saw a boy who was in pain and refused to yield, to bow, to give up. He was a stag cornered by snakes, but ready to gore them to death for his life.” He finished recreating Harry’s movements. It looked silly because the stick was so short compared to his height, but his movements were far more graceful than Harry’s.

“With this. Three men with blunted steel and he held them off with this.” Oberyn held up Harry’s weapon.

“A fucking stick.” He laughed, but stopped when his lover sighed and shook her head.

“I thought you would be pleased. You have taken a liking to him. What is the matter?” Oberyn asked, his grin turning into a questioning frown.

“In a way I am, but…”

“But?” he repeated as she let it hang. Ellaria sighed again, placing her hand against the stubble of his cheek. She was so sad considering he had just done the boy a great favor. There were many who would kill for the opportunity to be his squire and he gave it to a Baratheon.

“What is it my love?”

“You do not have a son. For all your children, for as wonderful as they all are and as much as you love them, you do not have a boy of your own. It is a nice gesture to make Harry your squire, but a small part of me was hoping you would see this as an opportunity to have one of your own.” She said with a small smile.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves, he is still a Baratheon.” Oberyn made to pull away, but his paramour pulled him back into her embrace.

“What happened to not blaming sons for the sins of their fathers?” Ellaria quoted back to him. A tiny grin was on her face because she knew she got him. He resisted the urge to groan and settled for rolling his eyes at her.

“We can always have sons of our own. We certainly enjoy trying to make them.” His lover smiled gently at his suggestion, but was not deterred.

“Even if we do have sons of our own, it will be nice for them to have a role model. Someone closer to their own age.” She added the last part when he went to open his mouth.

“A Doran to their Oberyn.”

He hated it when she made sense. But, Oberyn still had arguments of his own.

“He will learn everything he needs to as my squire. I will teach him to fight, to ride, and other things. What difference does it make if he learns as my squire or, as you so wish to put it, my son?” Oberyn asked, successfully pulling away and fiddling with the stick.

Everything she had said was true. He had no sons of his own. He loved his daughters as much as any parent could love their children. Oberyn did not mind they were not boys. They were as they were and he loved them for it.

But, there was that tiny, almost nonexistent little nagging at the back of his head, which all fathers probably had, that wanted a son.

“Sons love their fathers much more than squires their knights.”

Finally, Oberyn did release a groan.

“And what am I supposed to do with him? He is much to old for me to tuck him in and read him stories.”

 “Teach him to fight, teach him to ride, teach him to drink, and when he is old enough take him to pillow houses so he may know the warmth of a woman. It is not what you do, Oberyn, but how you do it,” Ellaria informed him.

“He may act unaffected, may even be as strong as I believe he pretends to be, but no child remains unchanged when ripped from their home. We all know why he is here. His family is part of the problem, you have a chance to make us part of the solution.”

Oberyn sighed and continued to twirl the stick absently in his fingers. Moving helped him think. And he would need all his wits about him against Ellaria. They were not married, but she was family. He would not be his brother. He refused to be a man who just said ‘No’. There would always be reason to his arguments with her.

It would be nice to have a son of his own, even if it was not one of his name. And Ellaria was correct…about everything. He could just not wrap his mind around treating the Baratheon as one of his own. The boy was a noble guest in their house, even if Oberyn really knew that Harry was essentially a hostage, and was entitled to a certain amount of respect. Even if her arguments made sense, Oberyn wanted to say ‘no’. Having Harry fond of him, have him see Oberyn as his father had many advantages. It was also why he did not want to.

It was one thing to take advantage of a grown man, especially an enemy. But, to manipulate a child was a line that Oberyn was not willing to cross. To pretend to love Harry only to use him was not what Ellaria had meant, but that was the only reason Oberyn could come up with for him to even consider it. ‘No’, was the simple answer.

Yet…

“We shall see.” He finally said, not having the heart to see the disappointed look on his lover’s face had he answered differently. The half-smile of acceptance was already disheartening. He never wanted to see Ellaria sad, never wanted to see any of the women in his life sad. Oberyn wanted them to have all the happiness his sister should have had.

Even, if he had his misgivings

**FLASHBACK END**

It was shortly after Oberyn decided he would mold Harry into a respectable Dornish prince. Part Doran and part Oberyn.

His brother was the one fit to be a lord, one who could take the weight of the kingdom on his shoulders and bear it without complaint. Oberyn could not teach Harry how to do that, but it turned out well, since he did not have to. The hospice was proof of that. Harry healing his brother without request was proof enough of that.

Oberyn was the fun one, the one to enjoy all the joys of life. He would teach Harry that. The second prince taught his future nephew to ride a sand-steed, a different beast from the ‘noble’ horses in the north. It was a horse of Dorne, one that could strive in the desert. It also had the temper to match. He had trained Harry to fight with the spear, the curved sword of Dorne, and even that exotic sword-glaive he had gotten for his nameday. Oberyn taught Harry life lessons. Though, if he were honest Harry had taught him a few lessons of his own. The boy was remarkably bright and wise for someone so young. It was not long until he had taken to Harry as a step-father would a step-son.

_And he’s finally old enough to take to pillow houses!_

He and Ellaria could hardly wait for the day they could take Harry. It would be like taking their own son. They would pick gorgeous women for him, women who could show him the ropes. Then, they would drink wine and listen to all that Harry had learned, maybe even give him advice of their own.

He was not married yet after all. Harry had his whole life for monogamy and serious relationships. Oberyn had meant what he said to Obara. Harry should be acting his age. Oberyn was three-and-ten when he had his first woman, Harry was a year behind and it was his duty as his liege lord to make sure Harry did not fall behind.

The young man was smooth, that much was true. The way he tempered Arianne was evidence of that. His niece was fiercely determined and of fiery temperament. The fact that he kept her close to him without being consumed by her was a shock to him. There had been other boys who, even if Arianne was not the most beautiful, had succumbed to her charms…when she was eight.

His niece was not the only one Harry had endeared himself to. The green eyes healer was dear to Oberyn as well. He loved his daughters, would not trade them for anything or wish for them to be anything but who they were. There was nothing he could not do with his daughters that he could not do with a son. But, still, he wanted one.

And the gods, in their silly way of muddling with mortals, had given him Harry.

It had not started out that way, but it was very hard to stop it from becoming so. Harry was just so polite, so likeable, and so damningly understanding. There were times Oberyn wanted to strangle him just to get a reaction. It was like the situation that had happened earlier. The man at the clinic had said he stood in a public street.

That was true.

But, it was the Prince of Dorne’s public street. It was public in the fact that anyone could walk it. However, if they threatened the Prince’s peace, they could be arrested and if they resisted arrest, killed. Harry knew that. Everyone old enough to think knew that. But, Harry had not had them arrested. He just scared them off. Nothing more than what equated to a small shove.

Oberyn did not know what he would have done if he had been in the same position. But, it certainly would not have just shooed the man away.

It was his love for Harry that had his temper up. A piece of parchment was crumpled in his hands. His first instinct was to burn it or tear it asunder. If the golden wax seal were not enough reason, the words written in on it would have been. But, he held in his anger. Oberyn would have patted himself on the back if he was not so incensed. In truth, he did not burn it because…

_I do not want to hear my brother’s whining that I burnt a missive from the king._

“Move aside, Hotah.”

Areo Hotah was the captain of his brother’s guard, a man who had traveled from Norvos with his brother’s wife, Mellario, to serve the Prince of Dorne. He was a tall man, as tall as he was broad. He was pale, would have been the color of snow if not for the redness the Dornish sun gave him. His hair and trimmed beard were pure white, looking like clouds on his face. A long axe, with an axe head the size of the blade of his spear, was firmly upon his hands. Oberyn knew that though the man had not fought anyone with the intent to kill in a long while, he was still deadly.

“The Prince does not wish to be disturbed.”

He respected Hotah. The man was loyal and a good warrior. Oberyn would have either crossed arms with him or joined him in it any day.

_Just not this one._

“A missive has come from the king.” Oberyn stated, holding up the unsealed parchment. He made sure the captain could see the seal.

“Let him in.” Oberyn could hear his brother say. The dutiful Hotah stood to the side silently, allowing Oberyn to pass.

 Doran Martell was older than his brother, about ten years older. His hair was almost completely silver from his age and the stresses of the kingdom. It had been black once. He had the traditional olive skin that all those of eastern Dorne had and was dressed in fine silks to denote his station. His brother sat in a lavish chair, not a throne, but a nice office chair that was comfortable even to the look. It had been made when his gout had started to irritate him, but now Doran kept it because of the extra comfort it provided.

“What need does the king have of Dorne?” His brother asked evenly. Oberyn knew he meant it derisively.

“Not Dorne. Harry.” He replied, throwing the offensive letter on his brother’s desk. Dorne only spared him a raised brow at the disrespect before taking the missive. Oberyn was chomping at the bit for his brother to say something, to do something. Even a small reaction would have been better than the stoic façade.

_It’s four sentences!_

“Hotah, shut the door,” Doran waited until he heard the telltale sound of wood hitting against stone, “so Stannis Baratheon has crushed the Iron Fleet. King Robert bids Harry to take the armies of the Stormlands and subdue Island Harlaw before meeting with him at Pyke.” His brother spoke calmly, telling Oberyn things he already knew.

“I can read. Can you believe the balls on that man?” Oberyn exclaimed. “Telling a boy who has not even felt the warmth of a woman to go to war! It is because he had heard of Harry’s power and thinks it will grant him an easy victory!”

“He is his brother and king. What do you expect me to do about it?” Doran asked.

He wanted to tell his brother to forbid Harry to go. But, that would not do. Harry and Arianne were not married yet. Harry was still a Baratheon. The only ones who could have said anything negative about it would have been Stannis and Renly. And it was no secret they held no sway over Robert. Harry was the king’s favorite brother. Of course, he would want glory for him. House Harlaw was defenseless. All the Iron Islands would be defenseless without their Iron Fleet. It would be an easy victory to add to Harry’s belt.

That was the kind of man Robert was. He thought giving Harry a sword and a victory would remove the ill feelings Harry had about the lack of justice for Elia. Harry had not liked what had happened at the Red Keep, had made it known for everyone with ears. He bore his brother no ill will, but there was a lessening of love. And Robert would not stand for that from his favorite.

Oberyn wanted to tell Robert that Harry’s magic was not for war. He healed people. But, that would only make Harry more valuable, more worshipped by those who fought. He could essentially keep an army at almost full strength, so long as not many died. In this single and, gods willing, short war Harry would be revered for all the lives he saved. Probably much more than any man who took lives.

Everyone could take a life. That was easy. But, not just anyone could save a life.

“Give me men and ships.” He said, taking the only avenue available.

“No,” Doran stated plainly, not even hesitating, “the Ironborn have not harmed Dorne. They will not harm Dorne. There are too many more convenient targets for them to raid than our mountains or deserts.”

“He is your future good-son and prince of Dorne!” Oberyn said, shocked that his brother was so callous. But, that had hardly surprised him. His brother had always been a cautious man. He had taken Harry in to avoid war. However, ever since Mellario had left from his fostering of his second born to Lord Yronwood, his brother had taken into an entirely different level. He was almost paranoid in his cautiousness, hesitant to strike for fear of being struck.

“He healed you! He heals your people!”

“And I am grateful. I gave him the clinic. I allow him to keep whatever revenue he makes, only taking the tax owed. I hold no grudge against him. But, I will not allow Dorne to go to war.” Doran said, eyeing his brother in a way Oberyn knew he had to tread carefully. They were brothers, but Doran was Ruling Prince.

“Besides, I have another task for you.”

“If Harry goes to war, my daughter will go with him. She is his Sworn Shield. I am his liege lord. I must go as well.” Oberyn said, turning away from his brother.

“I want you to go Braavos and arrange a marriage between Quentyn and Daenerys Targaryen.”

The words had brought him to stop so quickly he almost fell on his face.

“Have you hit your head? Do you need Harry to look you over?”

“Have you lost your lust for vengeance?” Doran shot back. His brother was not that stupid, it was merely a reminder.

“Of course I still want justice. There are days I burn from it. But, offering your second child to the youngest Targaryen would be seen as an insult not favor.”

“Unless I promise to back her brother’s claim to the Iron Throne. When they return, we will fight for them. Then, we will be able to claim our justice from the Lannisters. Harry will see our way. We will have many years to work on him. His brother will not be king forever.”

“Then his nephew will come next.” Oberyn pointed out. It was just an obvious thing; he knew his brother had thought of it already.

“A nephew with Lannister blood. Harry has spoken of how he has no love for what the Lannisters did. If the boy proves as cruel as his grandfather or as inept as his father, we will not even need to bring Harry to see our way. The Lannister boy will do it for us. And, with his sister held here in Dorne, Viserys will be easier to be brought to heal.”

It was a good plan. A lot of it hedge on the Lannister spawn being cruel. But, with his parentage Oberyn had no doubt he would be. His mother was a power hungry shrew, a jilted woman from her husband’s infamous ways of whoring and drinking. She would turn her son away from Robert. Tywin was a cruel man with only thoughts of his legacy, of his own power. He would aim to turn the boy into a true Lannister. A dumb nephew Harry would probably be able to live with, but a cruel one?

The sun would cease to rise first.

And it was not another daughter of Dorne going to a dragon, but a dragon coming to Dorne. They had killed the dragons before. The last time they had given one of their princesses…it had not ended well.

He had no real reason to argue against it. Viserys was still young, younger than Harry. He would not be able to amass an army across the Narrow Sea easily. Oberyn had been across the Narrow Sea, been a sellsword. Hells, he had established his own company of sellswords. All that mattered was gold. It would take Viserys years to get enough to buy the loyalty of a reputable mercenary troupe.

_If the gods are merciful, it will take him at least a decade._

That was not so much for Viserys’ sake as it was Oberyn’s. It would allow him and his family to bring Harry around to their kind of thinking. To see why they did what they did. Ten years was a long time to work, but Oberyn knew he would need every day of it. Not only to convince Harry, but to assuage his own guilt.

It was a betrayal to his squire of the highest order, to the person who had done much for his family and people. Plotting against his family. Men had been killed for less, had wanted him dead for less. If he failed to convince Harry, for as jovial as the young man normally was, Oberyn truly feared it would come down to one of their deaths.

He did not know if he would be able to bring himself to do it.

“I will agree with this plan.” Oberyn sighed, regret and guilt already starting to build within him. “The gods help me, I will do this.”

If only not for betraying him, Oberyn would say ‘fuck the king’ and take Harry with him. He believed Harry would like Braavos. It was a large city full of trade and always had something going on. They could watch the bravos do their Water Dance, tour all the best brothels that Oberyn knew, drink at every tavern, and see the grand structure that was the Iron Bank or warrior statue that stood over the entrance the city.

“You will be meeting Ser Darry. The Sealord of Braavos will serve as witness and officiate.” Doran said, pulling out a scroll from his desk.

Such a small piece of parchment for the large amount of treachery he was committing.

His guilt was enflamed by his imagination. He could already see the look on Harry’s face, the hurt in his eyes and his mouth open in shock as if he had run him through with his spear. It would have been kinder to run him through. Harry would not have lived to see his betrayal.

Oberyn was not the most just, most noble, or pious man. There were many off the top of his head that he could name that would be heralded above him in those regards. But, he did have his own code of honor. And he broke it the moment he took the vellum from his brother.

_For Elia, you do this for Elia. Harry will understand. You will make him understand._

Even as he tried to convince himself, the words sounded hollow. They did nothing to assuage the creature in his gut that threatened to claw its way out.

“I need gold.” Oberyn said suddenly.

“What for?” Doran asked, stopping mid-stroke of his quill.

“Harry goes to war. Obara will go with him. They will need armor.” It was the least he could do. He could not give them a ship, could not give them an army. Oberyn couldn’t even send guards with them. The very least he could do was make sure they had armor.

His daughter had the essentials, his gift to her for becoming a Sworn Shield. She needed it to perform her duties. Not so much because he believed Harry to be in danger, but because bearing a shield and a spear tended to make people think twice. He would complete it now and give Harry the same. Armor fit for those that came from a noble House of Dorne.

“You could always tell her ‘no’. I can have her thrown in the dungeons if you like.” Doran offered, but Oberyn scoffed at the suggestion.

It would have been a slight to Harry, even if he would understand it. It would be an insult to Obara. And she would not understand. Worse, she would never forgive him.

Her father hiding her behind him, forbidding her from doing her duty, taking away her dream…even her love for him would not allow her to forgive him. His love for her would not allow him to take it away.

“I will already have…great difficultly facing him for what I am about to do. Now you ask me to shame my eldest daughter? I love you dearly brother, but you overestimate how much.” It was with a stupendous amount of effort Oberyn did not sneer, spit, or growl. His tone was even. He would have been proud, if he did not feel like stabbing himself in the foot.

“It is for our sister.”

“It is because it is for our sister I do this. There would be nothing else you could use against me to agree.”

Doran held his hands up in surrender before scribbling on a blank piece of parchment. He poured wax at the bottom, a place to apply his seal, and stamped it with his signet ring. Doran took hold of it and froze.

“You think me callous?” He asked. Oberyn replied with a scoff.

“You are wrong, Oberyn. I too have love for Harry. As you have said, he has healed me and he is to be my good-son. He has done much for our people. But, I cannot allow our people to go to war. We have to conserve our strength, wait for the most opportune moment to strike. When that time comes, you want to take Harry and march directly into the Westerlands to drag Tywin Lannister and all his kin to burn at the stake, have him drawn and quartered, I will not stop you. But, we must wait brother. A snake only strikes once because that is all that is needed to kill its prey.”

Oberyn knew it was meant to make him understand. To help him better accept what was to take place. When he saw his brother stand with ease, to rise without assistance of his chair, it only made Oberyn angrier.

“Embrace me brother and let us end this quarrel.”

He moved around the desk and embraced his brother. Tightly. Oberyn felt Doran’s hair tickle at his nose as he leaned in close to whisper.

“Remember why you can do this Doran. Remember why this does not hurt more.”

“I thank the gods every day, Oberyn. I thank them everyday, that I did not listen to you the day Jon Arryn came with our uncle’s bones and a boy.”

_Just twist the knife why don’t you…_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 


	4. Chapter 4

**289 AC – Sunspear**

 

Arianne Martell – Princess of Dorne

 

Five years was a long time to know someone, to formulate an opinion about them.

Arianne was not perfect. It was a fact she knew well. She was human and accepted the fact that her humanity made her imperfect by definition. She was as prone to making bad choices and decisions as anyone else. The difference between her and many others was the fact she was willing to change, to correct her mistakes.

Harry was the perfect example of that.

When he had arrived at Sunspear all those years ago Arianne would admit that she had been quite taken with him. Pretty boys have always been a weakness of hers, even when she had been young. And Harry was without a doubt beautiful. He had the most brilliant green eyes she had ever seen with an easy, lopsided grin that simply beckoned welcome.

For a split second, she had felt lucky to have a boy who would grow into a handsome man as her betrothed. Of course, that had been offset with who his family was.

Everyone had told her of how cruel the Baratheon king was. How King Robert had allowed the death of her aunt and cousins to go unpunished. She could not understand how anyone could let such a thing go without justice. Not only were her cousins’ children, but her aunt was also a princess. There was supposed to be a certain level of decorum, even among enemies.

Arianne knew what she had looked like when she had been young. She was fat. Red spots marred her cheek from her affliction with it earlier in the year. She was ugly. And she prayed to the Seven every day to make her beautiful.

But she also cursed them for giving her a betrothed who would most likely be as cruel as his brother. Which honestly aggravated her because he was very nice to look at.

She would have raged if it has been so.

But, the gods had proven to favor her. Harry was nothing like his brother, did not agree with his brother’s actions on allowing the slaying of women and children.

Arianne had given it a few moons, observed at a comfortable distance to see how genuine his charity was. She kept him close enough to keep his attention, enough to keep his courtesies on her.

It would not do for her betrothed to fall in love with some other girl because he thought her frigidly unwelcoming or because of her preconceived notions that may have been wrong.

But, at the start, kept him far enough away to detach herself from him if he had proved deceptive. If he was cruel, she would still marry him, still do her duty to her House, but he would be her husband in name only.

Paramours were not strange in Dorne. Many ladies in power had them. They were husbands in all but name.

She wanted the love her father and mother had. They may have separated, but it was not because they did not love each other. Her mother could not adjust to the life of the west, could not accept that their world had its rules, and became unhappy with their lifestyle.

Her mother may have left, but there was no doubt they loved each other. She had seen how they looked at each other, seen them when they had been so happy and in love once, and she wanted that for herself one day as well.

It was a relief of immeasurable proportions that Arianne had come to find him unlike the stories people told of his brother.

People saw the Healer; the man who helped them with their sickness and illness. The children loved him for his stories and the fatherly aura he exuded. But, that was not what Arianne saw when she looked at him.

She did not much care if Harry was a healer. He spent too much time in the clinic for her liking. Especially since it had become fully staffed a year ago.

Whenever she looked at Harry, Arianne remembered the time her mother had left. She remembered how she had locked herself in her room, allowing no one to enter.

She remembered how Harry came every day, spending hours outside her bedchambers to tell her the stories he did to the children or just tell her about his day. His comfort at such a trying time, his unwavering support had been welcomed even if she had never said so.

From the very first moments they had met, he had treated her like a princess. Like a beautiful girl who deserved all his free time. Arianne remembered how if Harry weren’t in the training yard or the clinic, he would walk through the keep or the Water Gardens with her on his arm. He did not shy away or look at her with pity when she wanted his kisses, when she had started to become curious. He had his measure of propriety, not wanting them step out of bounds for their age, but he never failed to give her at least some physical intimacy even when she was ugly.

Harry never allowed her to push his boundaries too far, did not give her everything she wanted. He dictated how far and fast they went. Arianne found the challenge exhilarating. She enjoyed pushing to see how much she could get from him, always reaching a little further than before.

But, there was a small part of her that was aggravated he dictated such terms. She had been a woman for almost six moons and no manner of her hinting would get the point across.

She wanted them to be abed.

Her cousin and her had experiment and Arianne knew the pleasure such things could bring. She wanted to share that with Harry. Her purity of body did not match the depravity of her mind and it was starting to drive her truly insane. They were already to be married, what difference would it have made if they started in the pleasure that would come to them anyway a bit early.

But, no. Harry was resilient. A mighty mountain amidst the gale. No matter the coercion, no mountain would bow before the wind. 

She had thought there another girl in his life, someone who taught him how to please a woman. Because he seemed much too knowledgeable about the subject. His kisses were far too practiced and his hands knew too much of what to do. It would not have been too much of a surprise to find someone had taught him. An older servant girl perhaps.

But, he never gave a hint to such things. Which was good for the staff of Sunspear. She would have quickly removed anyone who stood between them.

Harry did not need any woman other than her. If he wanted another woman to supplement their bed, Arianne would invite her cousins for his exploration. They were very pretty after all, much prettier than her. She was coming into her own; the gods had deemed it appropriate to grant her prayers. But, there was still some ways to go before she outmatched them in regards to beauty.

He would be her husband and the world would believe him pleased with her. They would have to be united. They would not be a regular lord and lady. They were royalty of Dorne and the other kingdoms would not see any clear divide between them.

Arianne loved her cousins well. If she was to share her husband with anyone, it would them. They were family and he would be kept within the family. For either of them to have a paramour outside of that, it would make their union seem weak. It would show they were divided and there was a weakness to be exploited.

Just as her uncle Oberyn had proven with the late Lord Yronwood.

She cared a great deal for Harry. Arianne could see herself coming to love him completely one day. He was pleasing to her. But, even she knew that Harry was weak of heart.

He cared too much. He could fight as well as any she had ever seen, but he lacked ruthlessness. Arianne would have to pick up his slack. She would have to balance him, become the necessary evil to his goodness. And she was more than fine with the prospect.

Arianne would save him from his goodness.

However, there were things that even she as a princess could not protect him from.

Robert Baratheon, King of the Iron Throne, had summoned her dear Harry to war against the Ironborn. Because that was what Harry was…hers. And the Usurper sought to take him.

She could have cared less about the Ironborn and what they had done to Lannister territory. As far as Arianne was concerned, it could not have happened to a better people. They had no problem killing Dornish women and children. Why should she care if their own suffered?

It was not as if the Ironborn would ever raid Dorne. The mountains and deserts of the land would make it very difficult for them to accomplish such a thing. The sea was full of other dangers that made it difficult for sailors who knew them like the back of their hand to navigate. She knew that the Ironborn were renowned sailors, but it was an awfully amount of risk for them for so little gain. Especially when there were more convenient targets such as the Westerlands and the Reach.

Even more disturbing than King Robert summoning her betrothed to war that he was unneeded for, was the fact her father did nothing to stop it. She would not have minded as much if the strength of Dorne marched behind him. It would only further endear Harry to the people and she knew that many would die first before they allowed any harm to come to their precious Healer.

But, Harry was to lead the Stormlands, a land that he would never belong to again. Not if she had her way, which she would. She would not trust any of the Storm lords with a whore from the pillow houses, let alone a future prince of Dorne.

It was unneeded to say that the princess of Dorne was not pleased. The temptation to throw a tantrum had been strong. She wanted to rage and shout so loud that the Usurper would hear and feel her ire across the vast distance between them.

However, Arianne knew it would do no good. It would have been a waste of energy. Energy she could spend weaving her plot to demonstrate just exactly what she thought about Robert Baratheon. There was one thing she learned from Harry. Something he had inadvertently made her realized with how he had dealt with the Faith.

Never show direct opposition. Never show your true strength. Especially when outnumber and underpowered.

She did not have the power to hurt Robert Baratheon or Balon Greyjoy, who she blamed as much as any other for taking Harry away from Dorne.

Yet.

She would one day. And when that day came, they would rue the day they crossed her. One day, they would regret their actions that put her Harry in harm’s way.

Arianne had a list. A list of names she kept in her head of all those who crossed her in some way. It could have been as small as the times she had been a child and other girls had whispered insults behind her back. Or, it was as big as the Faith who labeled her future-husband a heretic.

In fact, they were very high on her list, the very first name that she would make an example of. They had dared to do harm to someone dear to her and would learn why it was not a smart idea to cross her.

They would all learn.

But, they were not her immediate concern. They would get what came to them in time. Arianne’s present concern was Harry.

She knew Harry. He could fight well, was trained by the Red Viper of Dorne, and there were very few men who could boast to be more dangerous than her uncle. Men who did in the past were with their ancestors.

 If Harry were just to go into a duel, she would not have been so concerned. There were people who already heralded Harry as one of the best swordsman of his age in Dorne; Oberyn chief among them. Her uncle would have put him into the ring against any other squire and some knights he was so confident in Harry’s ability. Besides, Arianne could always take steps on her part to ensure his victory if need be.

It was almost comical how a few drips of a concoction could slow or weaken the heartiest of men.

War was a completely different matter entirely. Arianne was no master of war or tactics, but even she knew that no plan survived the battlefield. There were too many variables, too many factors that could not truly be accounted for or measured.

It was an almost nonexistent relief that at least Obara would go with him. Her cousin would not allow anything to happen to Harry lightly. If not because she had a measure of respect for him, then because it would bring into question her ability. And that was something Obara would not have.

Her cousin wanted to be known as the best spear of Dorne, as her father was. If something happened to Harry while in her charge, she would turn into a mockery and be heralded as a failure.

Arianne made her way through the halls of the Sun Tower. She wanted to sprint through the halls, but it would have been unfitting for a princess. Plus, her sandals were not exactly made for such tasks. It had felt like an eternity to make her way to Harry’s rooms, easily identifiable by Obara standing guard outside with spear in hand.

Her cousin had taken to studying Areo Hotah, her father’s captain of the guard, emulating how Aero would stand and glare at anything that passed by intimidatingly and with suspicion. Arianne hoped Hotah’s zealous loyalty would rub off on Obara as well. It would be a load off Arianne’s mind to know at least one person would fervently guard Harry. The gods only knew how Harry would survive in a war.

“Greetings cousin.” Arianne said warmly to Obara. Her cousin grunted a response in return, jutting her chin out in greeting. Most would have been put out as such a…lazy greeting, but Arianne knew that was just Obara’s way. The only thing the woman seemed to be excited about was fighting and riding.

“How fares my betrothed with the news?” It would be good to know his state of mind before she approached. Arianne would know the best way to angle herself.

“Calm.” Came the unexpected reply.

“Calm?” Arianne asked again, as if she had not heard correctly the first time.

“Yes. Eerily calm.”

“Are you afraid?” She questioned.

“I would be stupid not to be. A healthy amount of fear is advisable when death is the price.” Obara replied.

“I do not normally know you to be such a defeatist.” She finally said.

“It is not defeatist,” Obara hisses, insulted at the very thought, “but balancing possibilities.”

A small part of Arianne wanted to drive the point home that Obara better not fail in her duty. But, rationality reminded her that Obara was her blood and she loved her. Arianne could not very well put Harry’s life above her. However, neither could she justify valuing Obara’s life above Harry’s. It posed quite the conundrum.

“There is also the possibility that you and Harry shall emerge from this victorious. You will bring homes spoils and bards will sing tales of you. Just as you have always dreamed. Do not focus on the many possibilities and instead focus on your goal. I have the utmost confidence that you and Harry shall return not only whole, but victorious. Positive thinking cousin. Positive thinking and your skills shall see you through the days to come.”

It wasn’t a total lie. Arianne did have confidence that Obara and Harry would return to Dorne. However, she had doubts. Small voices that whispered the worst into her mind. A mind that used its vivid imagination to once supply her exotic visuals of her and Harry intertwined also fueled the horrid images of Harry’s body twisted and cold. Bloody and dismembered.

But, she would never speak such thoughts aloud. It made the possibility all the more real and Arianne would not have such a reality come to pass. Even the gods were not so cruel as to give her a beautiful and warm future husband, only to take him away before they were even wed.

Or, maybe they were and it was all hopeful thinking.

The resolve to sequester Harry somewhere was becoming more and more enticing.

“I thank you for your words cousin. It has helped in some small measure. But, go and fulfill your original purpose. I know very well that it was not I you mean to console.”

Arianne took a breath to calm herself. It would not do to rush inside assuming the worst. The last thing she wanted to do was start a fight when her sole goal was to help put herself at ease. To give herself piece of mind that Harry was okay and would remain that way.

“On a side note,” Obara said as she looked away, “be wary my father. He may have gotten a notion that you and Tyene seek to become intimate with Harry…at the same time.”

That solved to lighten the gloom that threatened to stifle Arianne.

“And where may he have gotten that idea?” Arianne’s lips curled into a smirk.

“I may have mentioned such a thing in passing.” Obara admitted with a small cough at the end. Arianne crossed her arms with a raised brow and waited for more words to flow. 

“Ugh…he was pestering me about the subject. The man had the gall to advise me to ask you for your permission to carry Harry’s child. The entire embarrassing conversation in the middle of the hospice nonetheless. I had to give him another target for his inane meddling.”

Arianne shook her head with a small smile. Such a thing did sound exactly like something her uncle would do. In jest perhaps, but Harry was the closest thing Oberyn had to a son. He loved and trusted Harry with his life, what more the lives of his daughters. It showed in how he did not stop Obara from venturing with Harry, but providing them with the tools needed to survive.

She was not opposed to the thought of Harry laying with Obara. It would have been better if Arianne had gotten to him first, but the basis of the idea did not strike jealousy with her. Any other woman to try and take Harry, who would have the gall to even ask Arianne for her permission would have met a truly horrifying fate.

She would fight the woman knife to knife, cut out the organ that the woman would use to tempt her Harry. But, Arianne loved her cousins well. If they wished to share in her love for him, she would not stop them. If anything it may have been funny to see if Harry had enough ‘love’ to satisfy herself and her cousins.

“I shall keep an eye out cousin. But, I will expect you to bring something back from your travels for fixing this mess you have made.”

“Firstly, it was not too far the stretch of the imagination that you and Tyene would be plotting something to have Harry rest in both of your beds. You both share everything after all.” That much was true. Arianne had Tyene had shared much. Their first kiss was to each other. They both experimented with the pleasures of the flesh. Not at all harmful when they were as curious as they were. But, she wasn’t about to let Obara off the hook that easily.

“Secondly, what mess are you referring to?”

“Cousin, cousin, cousin,” Arianne sighed as if she were about to explain something to a child, “you have conveniently pointed your father in my direction. And unlike you, who will be traipsing through the Seven Kingdoms, I will be a convenient target for his teasing. As much as I love my dear uncle, even you must admit he can be quite a pain once he has started. I demand compensation for time and damages cause.”

“What damages?” Obara asked, knowing the answer was to be something absurd.

“To my patience and sanity.” Arianne replied matter-of-factly.

“You try my own,” her cousin growled to herself, “by the Seven be on about your way woman.”

She smirked lightly, before hiding away her amusement. She had teased her good cousin enough. It also helped to alleviate the burden placed upon her own shoulders. Getting a rise out of Obara always served to brighten her day. Partially because it was easy and partially because Obara was so very entertaining to rile up.

“You know,” Arianne said as she started past Harry’s sentry, “you both will be gone for more moons than I would care for. Long moons on the sea or the road. If you were to take…comfort in one another, I would not be adverse so such things.”

“Not you too.” Obara groaned. “I have no need for the jesting at my expense cousin.”

“It is no jest. I would rather it be you than some whore or village girl by the way side. It is no secret what men get up to during war, times spent so far away from home. To know that it was my cousin, whom I love dearly, to keep his attention would give me peace of mind.” Arianne replied softly.

“You need not worry about Harry’s attention being lavished upon whores. He could have the best whore in all of Sunspear at his disposal, yet he does not. Hells, he could have all the whores at his service with a nod of his head. My father on many occasions has invited Harry to travel with him and Ellaria. He has yet to accompany them.  You need not worry about his eye or cock straying from the self-imposed drought.”

They were facts Arianne knew well. For even as she was far more than ready, Harry had yet to show any interest in plundering her own fields. And she was more than willing to have him drill her well. Arianne had done everything short of pinning parchment to her gowns with instructions.

“The option is there cousin. I would not have someone use something against him when he does take his place by my side as prince. Should your own union bear fruit, it is with a clear heart and mind that I know you would never hold a circumstance hostage against him. Or me.”

No more words had to be said. Obara gave a small sigh and nod. Arianne left her with the same. She wished she could have given a parting shot. It would serve her right for sending her father in Arianne’s direction. The man would be insufferable.

More nosy than a servant girls her uncle was.

Both rooms, the bedchambers and receiving room, were sparsely furnished. There were no elaborate silk drapes, tapestries, or other finery. It was rather spartan in décor. There was a simple wooden table with four chairs in the receiving room, a place to drink wine while seated comfortably, and a rather plain looking rug. The bedchamber was much of the same style: a large bed at the center, a bureau for tunics, breeches, and robes, and a handmade rack to place his sword. There was a smaller table with two chairs, which allowed for more intimate company.

Arianne had been inside before and every time she had the same thought, _I am definitely in charge of the decorations for our chambers when we marry._

Harry sat at one of the chairs, running a stone across  a sword her Uncle Oberyn had commissioned for him. It was in the same style of the sword King Robert had gifted Harry, but none of the flamboyant flair. It lacked the major engraving on the blade, a simple fuller close to the spine taking its place. The handle was also replaced, being made of Dornish Yew with thick brass accents that wrapped around it in a spiral. Instead of a snakehead pommel, the end of the hilt elegantly mushroomed.

The weapon was simple, clean, and in her opinion, certainly suit Harry better than the ostentatious monstrosity of a sword his brother had given him. The sword was such a gilded and blatant display of wealth, it in no way suited Harry. It did not portray his true character, but rather what his brother wished for him to be. She would raise no objection to him keeping his brother’s sword as a show piece for the rest of their days.

Well, Arianne may have preferred it to collect dust in the armory because it truly was an eyesore.

“Are you attempting to paint a portrait?” Harry’s voice cut her from her musings. His face was blank. Just as Obara had said, an eerie calm over him. But, she could hear the teasing air.

It was a good sign.

“I have to make sure the artist captures my vision of you correctly. A painting to be made when you return victorious from the campaign.” She responded in kind.

Humor helped with her nerves. The nerves that were so absent in her betrothed. Nerves that should have been there, that would have been a small comfort if only to know that it was not only herself who seemed to be worried.

Harry just smiled at her understandingly, setting his sword up on its rack. He motioned to the chair opposite of him and she made to take it. But, at the last moment decided against it. Instead, she gracefully placed herself in his lap, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“I am not too heavy for you, am I?”

It was a trick question. Harry was not stupid enough to say ‘yes’ and would have no reason to ask her to remove herself. His intelligence shone when his only reply was to place a small kiss on her cheek.

That sat for a moment. A small, peaceful moment that lacked the awkwardness often associated with silence. It was a fact she liked about him. How nothing needed to be said. That unlike with some others, she could just enjoy his comforting presence.

But, the feeling in her stomach would not allow her to be quiet for long.

“I am tempted to hit you over the head and have you locked away in some tower until the war with the Greyjoys is over.” Arianne admitted offhandedly. She could have been talking about the weather for all the severity in her manner. Harry guffawed good naturedly.

“And what would I be doing in this tower while half the realm fought?” He questioned with a grin.

“Oh, I’m sure I could keep you busy well enough.” She sighed coyly, garnering another laugh. Which was ironic as she was in no way jesting.

“My brother has bid me take command of the Stormlands. Renly is yet a man and has never had a mind for war or strategy–“

“Why not have your other brother take command of them? Or the King himself.” Arianne fired back. Harry took her free hand in his and looked at her understandingly.

“Robert is king. He cannot be shown to be favoring the Stormlands and if he leads them into battle, that is what it will look like. Stannis already controls the Navy and is Lord of Dragonstone, it would be unbecoming to give Stannis command.” Harry explained.

“You belong to Dorne.” Arianne replied with a tad more heat in her voice than she had intended.

“To me.” She finished softly.

“We are yet to be actually married.” Harry answered, “until that time, I am still a Baratheon.”

“You will be a Martell.” Arianne stood abruptly. She had no intention to, but her feet had a mind of their own as they caused her to pace.

“When we are married I am to marry into your family, become your consort–“

“Prince.” She corrected him, finding her way back to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips. “You will be a prince of Dorne. My prince.”

“Call it what you like. I know, the world knows, what I am to be. I understood that. No matter what we call it.” He said calmly.

“If it does not matter what we call it, then we shall call it ‘prince’.” Her tone brokered no argument.

“Very well,” Harry acquiesced. “Regardless, as of this moment, I am still a Baratheon. The only one fit to lead the Stormlands.”

“We could change that. It is only but a few steps to the Sept. We could get married right now.”

She had always wanted a grand wedding, one befitting her station. All of Dorne would be in attendance. Lords and ladies from beyond, even from families they did not like, would travel far to attend and suck up to them. It would be a façade, but they would play nice and bring gifts of insurmountable value.

But, Arianne would give it all up if it meant Harry would stay. She would make him see the gods on their wedding night, learn everything that would make him see his brain. If he would only stay.

But, he wouldn’t. There was also the fact that her father would be rather crossed with her if they just went an eloped. A wedding, at least the days leading up to and following, were prime dates for discussing business of the realm. Trade and water agreements could be forged as everyone would be gathered.

If nothing else, the look on Harry’s face at the very suggestion was enough of an answer for her.

“Every woman deserves a great wedding. If we are to ever have a daughter, I would wish the same for her.” It was difficult for Arianne to argue with his statement. Especially, when his reasoning was so sweet.

“And you have obviously never met my brother Stannis. If we were to elope, he would find some way to take it as a slight against his person.”

Arianne laughed.

She had never met Stannis, but Harry had told her enough stories about all his brothers to know that he was probably right. They were enjoyable stories. For as much as she hated the man Robert Baratheon became, she could not fault Harry enjoying what childhood they had together.

Her mirthful laughter was but a blip in time. A tiny joy. Because as quickly as it came, it left her.

“You will come back…safe and whole.” It was a statement of fact, one that brokered no room for argument.

“I will.” He replied, his own tone of assurance easing the heavy stone that had taken residence in her stomach. But, it did nothing for the tears that wanted to escape her. They threatened to do so. The salt and water all but burst forth from her eyes of their own accord.

But, she would not cry.

She would not allow any of his final moment before his departure be one of sorrows. Harry would only see her smiling and laughing. And, if his damn stubbornness would end, moaning in rapture above, below, or beside him. He would only know peace and happiness until he sailed away. The gods knew what horrors would await him upon the sea or on land on the Iron Islands. Arianne would give him the fondest of memories to tide him until his return.

He would return.

Robert Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy had better pray to any and all gods that Harry returned to her. Or, she would make it the sole reason of her existence to demonstrate exactly why all Seven Hells had no fury like a woman scorned.


	5. Chapter 5

**289 AC ­– The Summer Sea**

Harry Baratheon

War.

It was something he knew well. He had become very intimate with war and all its bastardy. His body was fairly young, but his mind was not.

Visions of death and despair could still be recalled with a crystal clarity that would chill the blood. Bodies in full animation only to fall like a puppet with its strings cut. Bloody gashes that poured out life like a macabre fountain. And those were just the bodies of those that participated.

Dozens of innocents were caught in the crossfire. More than Harry would have like to remember had been maimed beyond repair. No one was untouched in the end.

Even when all the killing was over, the war was not finished. There was still the aftermath; punishments to be handed out like candy and graves that were to be filled. It would be years until a sense of normalcy could be established within their community. But, even then, it had not been the same.

The ghastly memories that could be trigger by any number of places would not allow it.

After, he had lived his life as peacefully as possible. He took care of his wives and of his children. He spent all his life in peace helping those who could not help themselves, giving them a better life than he had started with. But, none of the normalcy or good that he did would erase the fact Harry had learned about himself during the war.

He was good at it.

Once the hesitation left, when Harry could not stand to be pushed any longer, like breathing to a drowning man who had finally reached the surface, killing came so easily.

There were few things he could do better than take life. That he remembered distinctly. It was a part of him. A unique set circumstances and skills he possessed to make him a proper killer. It was as if his whole life had been building to that.

That is what it had been back then.

Killing.

Not fighting, as many bragged they did. Fighting implied quarter, rules of engagement, and codes of conduct.

There was only one rule Harry had back then.

Don’t die.

There had been only one code of conduct.

If you did happen to die, take as many bastards with you.

That had been a lifetime ago. The circumstance had been different then. There had been people who forced him into a corner. And even the most meek animal would fight when it had nowhere to run.

When news of some dark-lord or dark-lady attempted to fill the void Voldemort had left, Harry struggled against the urges. That had not changed. For a long time, he resisted the urges of violence, resisted taking the easy way. He wanted to construct, to heal. Not destroy.

_But, sometimes, to save a life you have to take one._

Or a few hundred as wars were known to do.

Then or now, he took no pleasure in it. It wasn’t like playing the harp or being able to paint. Those were talents Harry could delve into with zest if he had ability to do them well. But, his talent was one of high costs. He traded his sweat for another’s blood.

Harry may not have liked it, but he was good at killing.

Not that anyone knew that. They all knew he could fight, could go round-and-round in the training yard, but everyone only knew the other side of him. The nice side. The helpful healer who everyone knew and loved.

They had never seen the dark side of the moon. Only Harry knew what was there. And he did not like it. There was no telling what others would think when he unleashed what hid beyond their sight.

 It was why he was resolved in obtaining Lord Harlaw’s surrender without bloodshed. He would give the aged Iron Lord an opportunity to end things peacefully. A much better outcome than the Ironborn Lord could expect from anyone else. It was said that Lord Rodrik Harlaw was a well-read and intelligent man. Harry hoped he would see the wisdom in taking the knee.

He could care less if others would call him gutless or cowardly. Harry knew his brother Robert had sent him to Harlaw in hopes of an easy victory. His brother’s thinking was strategic and well-thought out. Which did not surprise Harry. Of all the subjects they had been forced to learn, war and battles were the lessons Robert enjoyed the most. While not as savvy as Stannis, Robert had a good mind for war.

The island was large and due to the deforestation in ages past, Harlaw would have no problem supporting the amount of men he had with him. Ten-thousand Stormlanders would descend like locust upon an island that could raise three-thousand at full strength, but with the decimation of the Iron Fleet would probably have a thousand or less. Robert thought it was the best way to have Harry blooded, something that his brother expected from a respectable man.

If Harry had his way, his brother would be sorely disappointed. He could understand Robert, knew why his eldest brother wished for Harry to make a name for himself. That did not mean he agreed.

But, all that was worry for a later time. If the wind and sea agreed with his ships, it would still be a week’s sail until they reached land and at least a day to set up their encampment. There was plenty of time for Harry to think of how he would handle the parley with Lord Harlaw.

A more pressing concern was Obara doing her best to wear a hole in the very nice rug inside the captain’s quarters of the ship Harry sailed on. It was one of Lord Estermont’s, his grandfather on his mother’s side. The man was too old and weary to sail and lent his best ship to Harry for the duration of the Greyjoy Rebellion.

Greenstone was one of the two islands that gave homage to Storm’s End. As an island, even a rather small one, they fielded some of the best ships. Lord Estermont’s flagship was the _Leatherneck_ , an appropriate name. It was a ship of speed and maneuverability, meant to effortlessly navigate the perils of Shipbreaker’s Bay. A craft fit for only true sailors.

It was a double-decked war galley with three sails; a square sail at the front and middle, with a triangular sail at the aft. Both decks had a hundred oars on either side, with the quarter deck being surrounded by scorpions with a catapult at the bow. The ramming head was a very sharp nosed turtle with eyes that appeared to glare at all that was in front of it. She may not have been the most intimidating, especially with a giant green tortoise at the sails, but she was nonetheless a formidable vessel.

The levies slept in hammocks strung three high, from the middle to the front of the ship. A few knights took up the middle of both decks, putting themselves between the captain’s quarters and rest of the men. It was an unneeded gesture, but was tradition. The captain’s quarter was where Harry and Obara, through her own invitation, stayed.

His grandfather had obviously had the quarter built with luxury and comfort in mind. It took up the stern of first deck and rose from the quarterdeck like a cabin. There were stained glass windows on the side that faced the quarterdeck with plain windows that look towards the sea. The upper deck was a common area. It was small and could only hold four people around the bolted round table and chairs, but it was much more than the other men got. The bottom floor was the berthing area with a corner for work.

The berthing area housed a much grander be than Harry expected, not at all the regular size of beds on a ship. It was comfortable for two people and Harry had an idea what his grandfather had in mind when he had the ship built. Chief among those ideas was that his grandfather used the ship as a way to entertain a mistress. There was no other reason for such luxuries on a ship that was the size of a war galley.

Regardless of what his grandfather had used it for, Harry was glad that it did have a bed big enough for two. He would have given it up to Obara out of some sense of chivalry and she would have made him sleep on it because it was befitting. Then, Harry would have felt bad about it and then no one would have used the bed.

To the fore of the lower deck was the writing station where a captain would normally log the activities. Harry had no intention of needlessly scribbling the minute details when they would be of no use to anyone.

The area they did use was the staging area. It contained a multi-layered weapons rack with a smaller cubicle to store armor in an organized manner. Harry was glad one was available, because he would have been very hesitant to just haphazardly throw his or Obara’s armor on the ground. They were very expensive gifts after all. In typical Oberyn fashion, he had gone overboard, spent much more than lords or knights did for the smiths’ work.

It truly was an abhorrent amount of coin for two sets of armor. Harry believed Oberyn only spent as much as he had to irritate Doran. They had been rather frosty with each other lately. Even when Harry and Obara were to board.

Both had showed and put on polite smiles, but the literal and figurative distance between them was not missed. It was something Harry had tagged in his mind to question Oberyn on upon his return, provided the hostile nature between the two still existed.

That was not to say that the armor was anything less than exemplary. They both were in the style native to Dorne and fit perfectly with the way they had been taught to fight. Oberyn had taught them both, but neither was a facsimile of their teacher or each other. They favored different tactics and techniques.

Obara was more structured, moving from one solid posture to another. Her defense was impeccable and nearly impenetrable with her shield-work. She attacked from behind her Dornish shield or under it, never giving her opponent a clear opening. Of the both of them, Obara was the one to reflect most closely to Oberyn’s technique. Her armor reflected that…well, with Oberyn’s flair at least.

It was covered in copper, making it shine brilliantly in the sun. The turban helm was conical with chain-mail that draped around the sides and rear like a skirt. A gorget covered her collarbones and rose just a scant few centimeters.

Under Obara’s gorget was a byrnie that went just past her waist and above her elbows. The armor over her byrnie was made of overlapping scales that were sewn onto leather, making her torso look like it was covered in the hide of an overly large snake. It reminded Harry of the basilisk of his second year.

Thick raw-hide straps connected her spaulders. Unlike her chest armor, they were segmented like a lobster’s tail and finished at the same length of the sleeves of her byrnie. She forewent gauntlets, replacing them with strong leather gloves and vambraces. The last of piece of her armor were the lightly armored greaves.

An orange cloth wrapped around her helm in a simple braid, which draped down and wrapped around her shoulders and sat on top of a red flowy robe. The cloths served to help to keep the wearer cool by blocking the sun from direct contact with as much of the armor as possible. Dorne was a desert and Northern armor did not agree with the weather.

The fact that her father had given Obara armor similar to his own had pleased her to no end. To her, it was a symbol of Oberyn’s faith in her abilities. And, Harry agreed. If he did not faith in Obara, he would never allowed her to come. Sworn Shield or not. Bitching or not. Threatening to shove her spear up his ass or not.

His Sworn Shield preferred the weapons of her father; a brightly polished circular shield and a spear with a steel head and spike. Granted it was a short spear, only a foot taller than she was, but it was a combination that provided a weapon of superior reach to most other weapons and a defensive item that could double as another weapon. In the unlikely event her spear became unusable, a tulwar rested on her left hip.

Harry’s armor was also of the snake scale variety, but in brass to Obara’s copper.

The helm was much like Obara’s, with the exception of a black cloth rather than orange that ran around a pendant of a blazing sun that was pinned at the center. Harry was sure Oberyn had put that there in a blatant attempt to piss off his brother.

To Oberyn’s credit he had used the colors of Harry’s familial house and the sun was not so large; a little smaller than half a hand. So it was more a convoluted insult rather than a direct slap to the face.

His gorget was steel embroidered along the edges in a delicate, yet masculine Dornish design. It was highly polished, allowing the brass to do an impressive mimicry of gold. A beautiful and impressively anatomically correct copper woman knelt naked as a separate raised piece at the center. Her hair was full and curly, but did nothing to cover the exposed breasts or swell at her hips. She looked up as if searching for the sun on his helm, raising her face and arms in worship.

It was a beautiful piece; a work of art, if albeit lewd. But, Oberyn was most people. To him, the human body was art and there was no shame in appreciating the beauty in artistry. Nudity did not equate to shame or public debauchery.

Still, it was a small mercy to Harry’s eyes that the spaulders attached to his gorget was free of any large designs. There was only more of the detailing on the trimmings along the cap at his shoulders, vambraces, and greaves.

Instead of a robe Harry had a silken gold overcoat. It had flowing sleeves that fell just below his elbows, with the body falling just inches below hip bone, which was held close around his body with a gold silk sash. A large black sun took up most of the back. A different look from most Dornish men, but still functional for the desert weather.

“Obara.” He attempted to catch her attention when her grumblings and pacing became too much to bear. She did not even bother to register his presence. Not even so much as a glance. Obara just paced until she hit one bulkhead, spun on her heels, and made her way to the other.

“Obara!”

“What!” She spun and snapped at him like a cobra. Harry resisted the urge to posture, stand and glare her down into submission. It was an unwanted reflex; a symptom of being bullied most of his young life. After so long, after so many years, even across lives, some habits die hard.

“What bothers you?” He said calmly. “And, before you say ‘nothing’, I would like to point out that you have done an admirable job of attempting to make me nauseous.”

“Then stop watching me.” Obara ground out.

Harry sighed as her face pinched into a snarl. She was incredibly difficult. Not that he could blame her.

They had been confined to the ship for weeks with little to do. The men left them well enough alone. They knew he was brother to the King, but had apparently heard tales of his magic. And like all people who were ignorant of a potential dangerous subject, they were suspicious of him. None were rude or disrespectful, but they did give them a wide berth. It was understandable that Obara was experiencing cabin-fever.

Literal as the case was.

He would have told her to go find some men to spar with, maybe gamble away some of her coins in a game of dice. But, Harry was smarter than that. His men were Northerners. At least, that’s what the eastern Dornish considered them. They had very different opinions to women’s role in…everything.

Sailors were a superstitious sort and it was an infamous myth that women were bad luck on a ship. Harry was not stupid enough to even imagine that Obara would take their opinions lightly or cruel enough to subject the men of the _Leatherneck_ to her ire. They had been entrusted to his care and leadership. And as it was, they were weary enough of him.

“Obara…” He sighed again, before she interrupted.

“Do not sigh at me as if I am some petulant child!” Obara snarled.

“Then stop acting like one!” He snapped back, causing Obara to take a single step back.

Harry hadn’t meant to shout at her. The words had just erupted, bypassed the filter of his conscious. He had an inkling as to what was wrong, aside from the boredom and he truly did want to be understanding. However, it was difficult when she was being so closed off from him. Harry would have liked to think they had grown closer in recent years. Close enough to have developed some trust. All he wanted to do was help her, but he couldn’t do that if she would not let him.

“I apologize for yelling at you,” Harry said softly, “but you are obviously anxious about something. Sit and let us speak on it. You may find you will feel better once airing out whatever thoughts trouble you.”

He chose his words carefully, deliberately avoiding words like ‘afraid’ and ‘please’. The first because it would only set her off in a tirade of bravado and completely skim over what was bothering her. The other because Harry did not want her to mistake what he said as a request. He was an easy going sort, but there were times when he knew his feet must be grounded and stand firm on his instance of things. Harry did not prefer it, but there were times when it was the only way.

“There are many thoughts that vex me.” Obara finally admitted. It was not much, but he would coax it out of her. Harry did not plan on fighting on Harlaw, but if there was to be battle, he did not want her to venture out onto the field with anything other than a hundred percent focus.

All it took was one misstep, one moment of negligence, and Harry may have to be the one to tell Oberyn that he was less one daughter.

“Then, start with the first thing. We still have at least eight days until we reach Harlaw. Plenty of enough time for you to talk and for us to resolve whatever it is that is turning you barmy.” He joked in an attempt to lighten the storm cloud that hung around Obara.

“Why are you not afraid?” She asked, sinking to the bed. She groaned it was as if the weight of the entire world had been on her shoulders and only then was she allowed a respite.

“Would you prefer if I was a quivering mess?” Harry asked curiously. He would have thought his calmness would be appreciated. After all, as their leader if Harry was to panic, then the rest would follow suit. Perhaps, it was that many of the men expected him to be anxious. As far as they knew, Harry had never entered into a melee competition let alone a real battle.

“As sad as it may be to say, yes. I would feel much better knowing that you have some fear in you.” Obara said, confirming Harry’s thoughts. “We sail to war and in the weeks we have been on this ship, you have acted as if it is another day.”

She stood from her spot on the mattress and started to pace again, her hands waving wildly as she spoke.

“This is not a travel to the clinic, Harry. We are out of Sunspear, out of Dorne. The moment our feet touch soil, every man native to that land will want to kill us. I am supposed to be the one protecting you and I am ready to jump out of my skin. Does this not conjure some sort of fear in you? A level of caution? A spark of worry? Anything?”

“No.” He replied plainly.

“Why the fucking hells not!” Obara exclaimed as she turn on him. Her hands slammed against the headboard of the mattress, only a few inches apart from where his head was. His Sworn Shield’s growling visage was so close, Harry could see ever crinkle on her nose as she snarled, every eyelash as her wild eyes focused in on him.

He knew of lesser men who would have backed away, that would have flinched. But, Harry was unafraid. Obara would never intentional hurt him. There was respect between them. And, with that respect came honesty. Honesty in words and in action. He wanted her to be able to be herself, to never feel censored. Even if it meant enduring her outbursts.

While within his rights to lose his temper, Harry just took one of Obara’s hands in his own and guided her to sit beside him as she once did. She was resistance, giving a half-hearted attempt to pull away so she could start her pacing. But, Harry would have not of that.

 “If that is what bothers you most, then the answer is simple, Obara.” Harry began as soon as she sat. “There are only two things certain in life: we live and we die. And, while the first may not be as certain, the latter is absolute. We all die, Obara. It is an inevitability. So, why fear it?”

He was perhaps being a bit unfair. Harry had caught a glimpse of the afterlife. Or, the afterlife he was supposed to be sent to. He had seen the smiling, welcoming faces of all those he had ever held dear. He knew what was waiting for him on the other side. Obara did not. It was reasonable that she would be afraid.

“You hold nothing so dear that you are afraid to lose it?” Obara questioned with no small amount of skepticism. Harry could not help the small chuckle that escaped him. By the look that developed on her face, he knew Obara believed him to be mocking her.

“I apologize. I am not mocking you, Obara.” He quickly remedied, holding up his hand to stall the verbal abuse she looked ready to bombard him with. “Of course there are. That is why I give my flowers to the living, Obara. I live my life as beautifully and smartly as I am able every day, because it very well may be my last.” Harry said.

It was a principle he had only learned to fully apply in his current life, but the sentiment was sound and it was one that he wanted Obara to keep with her always.

“How do you do that?” She all but whispered.

“Do what?” Harry asked quizzically.

“How do you always know the right things to say? Did you mother read you nothing but books on ideology? Do you have a scroll written inside your sleeve?” She reached for said sleeve, pulling it up to reveal nothing but flesh. Half in jest, Obara was put out that there were was no ink.

“Well, let us just say that I have a unique outlook at life.” He just laughed and settled her searching. With her hands still in his, Harry gazed into Obara’s eyes, the eyes of one of his first true friends in Westeros. It was good to see her in better spirits. Mayhap she was not out of the woods yet, but there was a light at the end of her dark tunnel.

“Yes, I suppose you do.” She agreed. “Seeing the sick and dying every day will do that.”

Harry laid down, laying his feet behind Obara. He did not correct her because she was right. Seeing people die in a war was much different than seeing them perish at the clinic. During war, even if it was at the back of everyone’s mind, causalities were expected. It was just the sad truth about warfare; people were going to die.

However, the clinic was a place people went to survive; to escape death just a little bit longer. In his past life, he had never been the one to give people the bad news. If anything, it was quite the contrary. Harry had always been at the receiving end. Being the one responsible, the person in charge, was a heavier cross to bear.

It was his burden to tell the mother whose sweat from labor had yet dried, that there was nothing else that could be done for her stillborn. It was Harry who had to sit and listen as she begged, pleaded, and eventually cursed at him as she cried herself to sleep.

Harry was the one to have to tell a father and husband that he could no longer work because they had to sever a limb to keep the body alive. It was Harry who had to look into their eyes and tell them that they lives were irrevocably changed. And those horrors stuck to him harder, pained him more than the dead on the battlefield.

Contrary to the popular belief in Dorne, his magic could not heal all. He could channel as much of his magic as he could into a task, but that did not mean it would always succeed. Some people were just too far gone, the disease or sickness too engrained for Harry to do anything at all.

Magic did not come as easy as it once had. His magic was without focus; wild and untamable. Until he had learned from those who now worked for him, most of what Harry did was energy (magical) manipulation. It was simple in theory, but exhausting in application. Instead of having words or runes to give his magic direction, Harry coaxed it to do as he wished. No easy thing as magic was as vast as space and as untamable as gravity. 

That was why healers such as Maegar used simpler magic, such as charming objects. They enhanced the natural properties or removed impurities from the ingredients to increase effectiveness. They never used magic to treat people directly because none so far had been able channel magic in such quantities as Harry. Whereas Harry could close a cleanse and heal a cut, and be able to move about his day, barely a sheen of sweat on him, others would find themselves out of breath as best and attached to a bed for a day at worst.

However, just because none could do as he did, did not mean Harry had been the best healer. It took many moons of pure research, many hours a day where Harry did nothing but comb through the tomes that littered the library.

Even after that, he spoke and discussed with the hedge wizards and witches that came to work for him. All of whom knew so much more than he did. They had turned their lack of magical power into a strength, combining science and nature into a form of alchemy.

None of them were Nicholas Flamel, but Maegar could make some of even the most experienced healers of St. Mungo’s marvel at what he did with common herbs and the smallest bit of magic. Even Harry did things their way as it was less taxing. He could do more with less.

“Let us think of happier thoughts.” Harry said, just as much for Obara as he did for himself.

Obara replied with a noncommittal sound before clambering over him. No attention was paid to how if anyone were to enter at the moment, the positioning would have been rather compromising. Only temporarily, but compromising nonetheless.

She laid beside him, mimicking his posture with her hands behind her head and ankles crossed. Their elbows were touching and they played a small game of trying to end up on top without releasing their hands, but they were not so close as to be misconstrued as anything other than good friends.

Well, in Dorne anyway.

Harry knew that if his mother were alive she would have blown a coronary seeing him in bed with a young woman; both from shock and how loudly she would have chastised him. The fact they were fully clothed would simply not have registered.

They stared out one of the windows of the cabin. It was soon to be night, the window giving them the perfect view as the blues gave way to the oranges of the sky. The stars would be out soon. And while the constellations were not the same, Harry had always enjoyed looking at a clear night sky. It had a way of making all his troubles fade away when taking in the incalculability of space.

“So, have you given into my cousin’s demands to deflower her yet?” Obara asked out of left field.

“Where the hells did that come from?” Harry riposted, turning his head with enough force he surprised himself when his vertebrae did not crack.

“You said to speak on happier things.”

“I said to think on happier things.” He corrected her.

“Same thing.” Obara waved away him away.

“Do not take this incorrectly, but how is whether Arianne and I have been abed a happier subject?”

“Well, for starters I would not have to hear her lament that all her hints have so far been unheeded.” She commented blithely with a grin.

“If you hear of it so often, then you should already know the answer to it.” He pointed out.

“Oh, I do. I just wanted to see your expression.” Obara confessed, her growing grin threatening to split her face.

Harry did not bother to ask ‘why’. All of the Sand Snakes took some perverse pleasure in seeing him put on his back foot. It was not something that happened often. Having raised daughters and granddaughters in his previous life, there was almost nothing Harry had not encounter before. Some of which, he dearly wished he had not.

“You have seen it.” He sighed. “Next topic.”

“Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” Obara lamented dramatically. “What is your plan once we set foot on Harlaw?”

Harry sighed again, but in relief rather than exasperation. Obara had chosen a topic that was neutral, a small mercy considering she could very well have made the rest of the evening difficult. Well, difficult for Harry. She would find it amusing to the level of stitches, but it would have been something akin to torture for him.

So, again, small mercies.

“Well…I’m going to sue for peace.” Harry smirked, feeling Obara’s wide-eyed gaze on the side of his head.

_Good, that’ll give her something else to rant about for a while._

*~*~*~*


	6. Chapter 6

The Well-Read Harlaw (Lord Rodrik Harlaw)

He was not the average Ironborn.

Rodrik Harlaw, Lord of House Harlaw of the island Harlaw, did not condone raiding for the sake of violence and killing. The killing was an inevitability of their raiding. But the Ironborn would not have started to do so if their own land could support them. Raiding was their way of life, because not to do so would result in their death.

That was his perspective on the matter.

If only all of the others were of the same mind.

His brethren sacked and burned all that was around them to the ground, giving no thought to the consequences. Most only saw the glory of plunder. So long as gold lined their hands and drink found itself into their bellies, damned the aftermath.

They did not have his foresight. A prudence that was born from knowledge. It was why Rodrik was the most reluctant of his kind to agree to the rebellion.

For years Balon’s father, Quellon, had kept the peace. He was a tall man, both fast and strong. A respected Ironborn who understood and was humbled by the weight of leadership. Quellon had all the reasons to be prideful and conceited, but the man was cautious and modest. He had been ten times the man Balon could ever hope to be.

Quellon knew that peace for the Iron Islands demanded good relationship with the rest of the Kingdoms. He had put a stop to most of the raids, freed thralls, and discouraged the taking of salt wives. Maesters, septons, and septas were allowed to live on the Iron Islands. It served to bring acceptance of the Greenlander ways and show that Ironborn or Greenlander, they were not so different. They all did what was needed to survive. Quellon sought to empower them through integration; allowing themselves to sail with the aid of the waves, rather than trying to oar their way through.

It was the smart move to make.

The Ironborn were some of the best ship makers and sailors the world over. There were none that could challenge their longboats in terms of durability, maneuverability, and access to all forms of free flowing water. There were none who would question that Ironborn warriors were the best fighters on the seas. But, even with a thousand longboats and thirty-thousand Reavers they would not be able to protect themselves if all the people they had pissed off over the centuries joined arms against them.

A statistical certainty that was being proven with Balon’s recent demonstration of idiocy.

Rodrik did not care much for his cousin’s husband as of late. Balon had started with such promise; a man known for his fearlessness, fierceness, and leadership ability. But, recent events had changed Rodrik’s mind. 

Where Rodrik had once thought Balon fearless, it had just turned out to be recklessness. He was a man with more pride than intelligence. A man so stuck on making a name for himself he would threaten their people’s lives for the sake of his glory. Balon had his axes, swords, and ships, but refused to use his most important weapon.

His brain.

Anyone with half of one would have told Balon that his idea was a stupid one. The Baratheon King had only just taken the throne a few years ago. There were still dissenters who would love nothing more than to watch him fall. He was a king that needed to establish a point and Balon just handed him the Ironborn to make examples of.

Robert Baratheon was a cornered animal.

The most dangerous kind and Balon Greyjoy just poked it with a damn stick.

What a fool Balon was. A fool with an equally foolish plan that could possibly see the land of their forefathers destroyed.

Not only had the idiot made the Greenlanders unite, but even in Rodrik’s wildest imaginations he could not fathom what Balon believed was going to happen. There was no finish line. At least, none that saw the Ironborn winning.

So what if they had raided Seagard and Lannisport? Did he not believe they would retaliate? Did Balon think the Greenlanders were just going to roll over and die? Did he expect to repel the invasion from behind their castles?

The Ironborn’s strength was in speed and surprise. They mounted lightning assaults that killed the opposition before they had a chance to mount an attack. They never ventured too far inland lest they give their enemy a chance to burn their ships; their only mode of safety. They got in and got out before men with powerful horses and long lances could trample them to death.

The Iron Islands were known for their abundance in iron, which made providing armor to their soldiers easy. But, it was not an act exclusive to their army. Every other kingdom had just as many men in armor. Some more so because they were wealthier and had a higher population. While they may be even in that regard, what put the Ironborn at the most disadvantage in prolonged combat on land was the lack of cavalry. An armored man on the ground, no matter how well made the armor, was at a distinct handicap when facing charging cavalry.

Regardless of how Rodrik looked at it, Balon’s plan hinged on hope that was thinly veiled as strategy. Normally, he would not have supported such a careless endeavor. But, they were family, even if it was through marriage, and Rodrik had sworn an oath of fealty to him.

But, as they say, everything became much clearer in hindsight.

It was too late to back out. Not only had they lost too much, Rodrik losing his both of his sons, but no commander worth their salt would stop their advance. He had seen the truth of that fact only a day ago when forty ships sailed towards his island, their large sails proclaiming they were Houses from the Stormlands.

As soon as the sails were able to be seen on the horizon, Rodrik had given the order for all the people and provisions to be taken behind the gates of Harlaw. The moment the Iron Fleet had set sail, he had already started to think of contingency plans. There was always a chance that Balon’s plan could succeed, but an even greater chance it would fail.

Either way, Rodrik had been prepared.

He had barely a wink of sleep through the night, waiting for word that the siege had begun. Their castle walls were tall, strong, and if he rallied every able bodied person, they would have just over a thousand bodies to man them.

Not ideal by any stretch of the imagination, but it was what he had and he would have to make do. If Stannis Baratheon could hold Storm’s End for moons, then he could at least attempt to hold the Ten Towers until Balon emerged victorious or bent the knee, either of which would be soon.

The end was coming soon. That much Rodrik knew to be true.

“My lord.” one of his stewards announced himself, walking into the dining room Rodrik had turned into his base of operations.

“What is it?” He asked, not taking his eyes off the map of the island.

“A message from the commander of the Stormland fleet.” His steward stepped forward to present the rolled scrolled.

“Who is their commander?” Rodrik questioned, interested to know which of the Houses did King Robert chose to lead the army of his homeland.

Stannis was leading the Royal Fleet towards Great Wyk at last report and the brother who was to rule Storm’s End was barely a man. The only logical conclusion was the other, the medicine man fostering in Dorne, or a House not of Robert’s own. Rodrik was unsure of which he preferred.

“The younger brother of Robert Baratheon, Hadrian Baratheon.”

Rodrik refused to cringe at the words. He greatly wanted to, but would not.

Fate, destiny, or some other cosmic force had decided to give him a swift kick in the balls. Probably as payment for his stupidity in joining Balon.

The Healer, as he was called, was a loved and respected man throughout all of Dorne from the stories Rodrik had heard. And, if there was anything worthy of a humble fear it was a man that was adored.

Men loved by their people could make them do all manner of acts out of devotion. They did not need to command, merely make their desire known, and the people would clamor to accomplish the task. People fought harder, were willing to risk more, even going to far as to suicide themselves, in the name of their reverence. Life would have been so much simpler if the army was Dornish. It would have given Rodrik better options.

As a witchdoctor, it was fair to assume that Hadrian valued life over glory. He would be hesitant to shed blood. Because that was what would happen if they decided to siege the Ten Towers. The losses may have been minimal for him, but Rodrik was banking on the fact that Hadrian would be open to a more pacifist route. If he succeeded, the Dornish’s respect and admiration for Hadrian would see them following his word to the letter. If he said that there would be no pillaging and plundering, they would listen.

If they were Dornish.

Which was what made him want to cringe. Because as it was, the army was from the Stormlands. That complicated matters. They did not hold the same respect for the young Baratheon as the Dornish. He was born as one of their own, survived the Tyrell siege alongside his brothers, but he was to be married to the future Princess of Sunspear. While the open rivalry between the Stormlands and Dorne had ceased long ago, the animosity would take centuries more to die.

Not to mention, that all of the great things that Hadrian had already done for Sunspear could have benefitted the Stormlands. Blame lay with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn, but the nearsightedness of men was legendary. He doubted they would be able to see past the tree that was in front of them.

“And what does the missive say?” Rodrik asked, doing his best not to show that he was holding his breath.

“He wishes to parlay.”

The words were a small relief, but caused suspicion to rise within him. It made no strategic sense for the Baratheon to talk terms, when with the right amount of artillery he could take the island within a few days.

A week at most.

There was a possibility that it was all a setup for Rodrik to be poisoned. As a squire to the Red Viper, a man notorious for the use of poisons, it was not too far a jump in conclusion to think he had taught his squire or that the man’s squire would see the option unreasonable. A few deaths rather than hundreds.

But, that held no great advantage for Hadrian. It would only label the young man a craven and poisoner. Terms that would reflect negatively towards the House of his birth and more importantly, his kingly brother. A fact known to the squire of the Red Viper. The saving of those lives would ruin his own and that of the House his name was associated with.

It was simpler and there would be better glory in just finishing Rodrik off the old-fashioned way. Poison was the tools of cowards and women. And, say what anyone will of the Baratheon House, but cowards they were not. So, while he was suspicious, Rodrik was also intrigued.

He took the scroll from his steward, squinting his eyes to read the message for himself.

They would both be allowed a contingent of five men to act as guards and witnesses to whatever was agreed upon. A small number, but that fit in Rodrik’s favor as well. If anything were to go wrong, only a really miniscule amount of warriors would be with him outside the gate.

Overall, it seemed a just and easily agreeable arrangement. But, like with all things that seemed too good to be true, Rodrik assumed that they were. He just could not see what the catch was.

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if he had many alternatives.

It was because of the lack of options that he commanded his steward to call for his most hardened men to armor and arm themselves. One of those men was to be his nephew and one of the few Ironborn knights, Harrass.

With both his sons dead, his nephew was the next in the line of succession and whatever Rodrik decided to do would affect him for years to come. It was only right to have him along.

Not to mention, having the young man’s Valyrian steel sword, Nightfall, at their side should things go wrong may prove to be invaluable.

It had only taken an hour. The sun had barely moved from its position in the sky when everything was set. But, it was the longest hour Rodrik had ever felt. Time seemed like such a relative thing, moving with at the pace of ice melting in the North.

His nerves were heightened. He could feel his blood pumping through his veins, could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and everything was clearer than it had ever been in his eyes. He could hear the crisp clings as his attendants strapped on his armor and the tin-like clangs as he walked down the corridors of the Ten Towers.

The scenic route he had taken through the Book Tower, a place he immensely enjoyed, felt like a trip to the gallows. There were still so many books for him to read and Rodrik was unsure if he would ever get to finish.

He had always thought it would be because of his failing eyes. But, it very well could be that at the end of that day, it would be because of lack of a head that the spines of his precious books would never again be cracked.

 _I suppose it would be because of my eyes,_ he could not help but chuckle at his own gallows humor.

Rodrik was met at the castle gates with the men he had instructed, Harras leading them from the front. From the look of them, they all shared his suspicion about the suing for peace. To his mind, it was only because were they in the same situation, they never would have shown mercy.

“This does not feel right, uncle.” Harras said lowly, as they all marched out the gates two-by-two in a column with Rodrik and Harras second in line. “Why parley when they have advantage?”

“I know not, Harass. That is what we are going to ascertain.” He replied evenly, taking out all his anxiousness on the hilt of his sword. His knuckles were white from how tightly he gripped.

“It stinks of a nefarious plot.” Harrass spat. “We should turn back and hold them off until the other islands can reinforce us.”

“Nefarious? Have you been reading my books?” Rodrik managed to make the small joke.

“Uncle, this is serious.” His nephew chastised, as if he was not well aware of the severity of their situation.

“I am well aware, Harras.” He said, his jovial nature disappearing in an instant. “But, what choice do we have? How long do you think we will be able to hold them off? A week? Two? How long do you think the people will survive a siege? How many would survive?”

“So we are the Greenlander’s dogs? He whistles and we come running to beg for a treat?” The derision in Harass’s voice was unmistakable.

It made Rodrik want to slap the attitude from him. His nephew had made it sound as if it was his idea to parlay, as if he was the one begging for mercy. It was all that youthful pride that was still in Harass that clouded his vision. A problem Rodrik did not have the luxury to have.

He was far too old to listen to his pride than common sense. The young Baratheon appeared to want to give them an out, allowed his true colors as a healer of men to shine through. Neither wanted pointless bloodshed. They both knew Hadrian could take Ten Towers, but they also knew that they would both lose men.

Neither had anything to lose in coming to a peaceful resolution. The Baratheon would obtain his victory and Rodrik and his people would be spared. If all went accordingly, then it was to be a win-win scenario.

Unlike the amount of time it took for Rodrik to walk to the gates of the Ten Towers, the time to reach the small tent in the middle of the clearing took no time at all. Easier still, it took no effort what so ever to determine who Hadrian Baratheon was. The light scaled armor he and the young man wielding a spear beside him wore, clearly outed them as Dornish. Mayhap not by birth in the case of young Hadrian, but the slight tan of his skin and shortness of his hair certainly spoke of how well he had adapted.

He sat alone at the square table, clad in brass scale armor and gold sand-silk coat. His helm resided to his left, just left of where his elbows were planted to support his steepled fingers. A strange sword absent its scabbard was thrusted into the ground to his right. Judging from a glance at its length it could easily be plucked and a single swipe would be enough to cover the entire table.

Then, it would be off with his head.

The woman Rodrik could only assume was his Sworn Shield stood closest to him, only a step behind and to the left. Her spear was poised, subtly pointed in their direction and tracking his movements like a snake. He had no question as to who she would skewer first should things go wrong.

Well, that was of course assuming she had not set them on fire. With the way her gaze fixated his head, Rodrik was surprised a hole had not been bore through.

Four more men stood behind Hadrian, three steps farther back than the Dornish woman. He could tell what Houses they represented by the sigils painted onto their tabards. Three stalks of yellow wheat for House Selmy, white crossed quills for House Penrose, a flying black crow for House Morrigen, and a yellow haystack for House Errol. None of them had their weapons bared, but judging from the scowls on their faces and their hands gripping their swords, they would have been more than happy to use them.

Lord Harlaw received the message.

Loud and clear.

He took the seat opposite to the young Baratheon and his men, in a show of force, stood directly behind him. They wanted to crowd Hadrian, make him feel their shadows loom over him. Rodrik was not surprised when the young man appeared unfazed and instead bore into Rodrik’s eyes with his gaze from behind his hands.

A moment of waiting passed.

And another.

And another.

And another.

The silence would have been stifling if not for the ambient noise of the soft sea breeze and waves crashing upon the shore. He was the one to break their staring contest first. But not because he was afraid. Rather it was to catch sight of the soldiers. The sea of armored bodies that would ransack his home given the opportunity.

The Lord of Harlaw could not readily count them. That alone spoke to their magnitude. However, he hazarded to guess them at twelve-thousand strong. More than enough.

“You have brought us all the way out here to talk, so talk Greenlander.” His nephew broke the silence with his command. Harras may have thought himself being a leader by taking charge, but all Rodrik wanted to do was strangle the air out of him.

Harras did grasp the severity of their situation, just the wrong side of it. They were the ones with their balls in a vice. The Baratheon was the one who had his hand on the crank. All it would take was a little pressure, the barest of motions would see them undone.

The Lord of Harlaw did not know why Hadrian said nothing. Any other lord would have been quick to cut Harras down to size. But he just stared. As if loss in the abyss. In his wisdom, Rodrik waited. The Baratheon had called the meeting and was holding all the cards. Rodrik would wait for the terms to be set and hopefully be able to negotiate.

“Do not act as if you have not heard me boy!” Harras exclaimed, moving from his spot to slam his hands down on the side of the table. He was on the opposite side of the Dornish woman, but far too close for any semblance of respectful distance and dangerously too close to Hadrian’s sword.

It happened in an instant, not a breath after Harras’s hands touched varnished oak. A flicker of the eyelid and Rodrik would have sworn he did not see it happen. But, something flashed across the Baratheon’s face. And, in that moment, Rodrik knew his nephew had made a grave mistake.

In the next moment, a hand that had been used to heal the sick and dying were latched around Harras’s head and pulled him rapidly towards the table. The sound of breaking cartilage rang out, replacing the crash of a singular wave just as his nephew’s surprised and painful groan superseded the whispers of the gale. There was no doubt that Harras would have screamed in pain, where it not for the mouthful of table.

With the other hand, Hadrian had grasped his sword and link it through Harras’s arm, bending his elbow at an awkward angle while resting the very sharp blade against his neck. Rodrik thanked the Drowned god that none of his men were stupid enough to move. It would take no more than a twitch to see liquid life spill like a fountain unto the barren ground below them. An involuntary spasm is all it would take to see Harras the Knight become Harrass the Headless.

“I came in peace and with respect. I wanted nothing, but peace and respect in return.” The young man’s voice rasped, sounding much older that his face told. There was a pain there Rodrik could not readily classify. The sound of two minds battling with one reluctantly capitulating to the other, as water would surrender itself from a stone if squeezed hard enough. In tone and expression, it was evident to all who looked upon the future Prince of Dorne, that his actions were one of deep sadness and strain.

“I did not bring artillery. I did not bring cavalry. But, I’m begging you, with all the sorrow my heart can muster: if you fuck with me, I will kill you all. I will keep killing you until you grow sick of it. I will kill so many, that what remain of your people shall speak with boundless revulsion of the acts I will commit.”

Entranced.

No, that was too beautiful a word. A word used to describe desirable women who could capture a man in a crowded room with only her smoky gaze. It was used to describe the amazement as adventurers came upon a mountain of gold and marveled in how it glittered. Entranced was the feeling of a man who laid eyes upon their firstborn and marveled at the gift and fragileness of life.

He was not entranced.

The Lord of Harlaw, the most wealthy and populous of the Iron Islands, was frozen. He could not breath, could not speak. His brain, which had seen thousands of words would not, could not function long enough to string together a coherent sentence. Were that he could, he was unsure if his mouth would even spew forth the words in fear of prompting a reaction.

It was a surreal feeling. The lie of the reality before him. He was a seasoned lord. His nephew a seasoned warrior. The Prince of Dorne a healer. It was like the beginning of a bad jest. Their situation would have been comical if not for that fact that he and his nephew were the punchline.

He could have called the young man’s actions a bluff. But, there was not a single part of him that believed Hadrian bluffing. He was, perhaps unknowingly, using their ways against them. Rodrik’s men had earlier sought to make the Baratheon feel crowded and cowed through intimidation. Hadrian returned in kind.

This is what peaceful deterrence was to the Ironborn. A show of steel in hand and heart. A demonstration that blood would flow if anything less than their demands were met. Were it that the Baratheon an Ironborn himself, he would be heralded for his political skill. Because threatening those covered under the flimsy tarp of parlay was surely not the Greenlander way.

And the threat was very much real. Of that, Rodrik Harlaw had no doubt. The young man’s eyes gave away intent. The Baratheon would have internal moral struggle with fulfilling his threat, but would soldier on and break through such harsh mental walls like a battering ram. Because, that was what Rodrik when they met stares.

A soldier whose interior struggle had turned him from war. It was war dragging him back into the fray.

And, suddenly it became clear why Hadrian Baratheon, a descendant of a House that is known for their warriors, had chosen an opposite path. He was a man who had committed horrors and seen numerous more. What those horrors were Rodrik could only assume, but they had certainly left scars on him. Wounds of the mind that would have Hadrian see no difficulty in opening up his nephew like a pig, over the table where he was bent like a whore, if it meant ensuring his accepted level of surrender.

He was wrong. They did not have their balls in a vice. They were but thralls presented before their master, begging for life when death was their righteous reward. It would only be through mercy and grace that would see them spare. And, as all thralls knew, there was no way to see mercy other than prostrated.

“If you offer peace and life, I will offer you surrender in kind.” The words slipped easily from his tongue, even if his pride had taken a blow.

“Uncle!” Harras struggled from beneath the threat of a dangling sword.

“All I wanted was peaceful surrender, Lord Harlaw. I sought no glory at your deaths, no spoils amongst your people. Had you swallowed pride and willingly bent the knee upon arrival we would have been halfway through a cup of wine, instead of me contemplating having the earth drunk upon your nephew’s life.”

It had all been a test. Smartly, the young Baratheon had set a trap and allowed the men of Harlaw dictate how they would treat each other. Should Rodrik have readily surrendered, Hadrian would have embraced them. But, mostly on Harras’s part, they had come with aggression and he responded in kind.

“Yes…yes, I see that now.” Rodrik slowly placed his hand on the thick, cleaver-like sword laying against his nephew’s neck, hoping to yet have Harras’s head upon his shoulders. “My nephew has offered insult and I can appreciate your need to see him pay. But, I have already lost both my sons. Harras is now my heir. You would have my gratitude on top my surrender, should you show an old man pity and not allow my nephew’s pride to become his fall.”

“Fuck that.” The Dornish woman spat her interjection. “He raised himself against you. If you don’t want to punish him for that, then I fucking will. A quick thrust will see his debt paid.”

The Stormlords muttered their agreement. Their eyes, which had previously only known hatred for him and his kind, now shined with respect for the future Dornish prince. He was young, but the threat he had made himself against the Ironborn of Harlaw impressed them. They urged him to agree with the Dornish woman, demonstrating that the enemy of their enemy was their friend.

“Wait.” Rodrik interjected before the young man could give the thought credence.

Harras may have been out of line, but the man was still his heir. Three heirs to perish in less moons would send the wrong message to the other Islands. Not to mention, while not skilled in politics, Harras was a skill sailor, commander, and warrior. To not have him amongst their ranks would further lower the threat of his House.

It was with painful slowness that Rodrik reached over and with the utmost caution drew Nightfall from Harras’s scabbard. His nephew renewed his attempts at struggle, but Rodrik clamped down around the younger man’s shoulder with all his strength and rendered all his silent disagreement moot.

The sword was handsome and valuable, but would hold no meaning when Harras was dead. They would take his head and then take his sword. It would mean even less if Hadrian was to eradicate his House.

He was hoping that with its ready presentation, he could save Harras’s head. Even Valyrian steel was not worth the price of ruin that would come to his House.

“Hostages are kept for ransom. Take this sword and let us call it payment for ransom and recompense for his insult.” He said, laying the sword carefully upon the table, the tip of the blade pointed towards himself.

“You are saying Valyrian steel is worth more than your nephew’s life?” Hadrian questioned, looking up at him.

Rodrik was smarter than the moments ago he had first appeared in front of the young Baratheon. He weighed his words in his mind carefully, balancing spoken and implied meaning.

“It is not his life’s worth to me, but what it is worth to you.”

It was his original strategy; to tug on the heart strings. The price attached to it was unexpected, but one that he was not unwilling to pay. Valyrian steel was prized because of its rarity and because of supposed magical qualities. But, to Rodrik, at the end of the day it was still only a weapon. There was more value to him in rare books than rare steel. And the name of his House was worth…well, maybe not all his books, but a good portion.

Harras was tossed to the floor, the dissatisfied grunt a welcomed sound to Rodrik’s ears. As his nephew took to stand, he stood between the two men. They had just made peace and he would not see it undone.

“Obara.” At the command of her liege lord, the Dornish woman drove her spear into the ground and took the Valyrian steel sword into her hand. She may have been more comfortable with her short-spear, but the young woman was no stranger to the sword. Her eyes rested firmly on Harras, conveying that she would run him through for the simplest reasons, the smallest infractions.

“I will accept your formal surrender at this time.”

And with that, the young Baratheon planted his sword into the ground, his overlapping hands cupping the pommel. In that moment, he was not barely a man of four-and-ten. He ever looked the part of a man conquering the soil he set foot upon, if only were his sword were a flag.

Rodrik motioned to his men, his hand upon his nephew’s shoulder to guide them both to the ground on bent knee. Harras’s teeth ground so hard together that he could hear them and his shoulders shook so roughly in barely contained rage that his armor clanked. Fortunately for him, the man said nothing. He had barely escaped with his head, Rodrik had no issue with separating him from a few teeth.

“Lord–“

“Prince.” The Dornish woman interjected, much to the murmuring of the Stormlords. “Prince Harry Baratheon Nymeros Martell.”

Rodrik looked to the man in question with a quizzical gaze. The visage of the conqueror broke and was replaced with youthful exasperation; the heavy sigh of the woman’s name and closed eyes of a youth embarrassed by their parents. Each face was two very distinct sides of an intricately confusing coin. He questioned which countenance was the façade: the youth or the conqueror.

In truth, he hoped to never have to find out.


	7. Chapter 7

**289 AC ­– Pyke**

Robert Baratheon – The Newly Minted

His father, Steffon Baratheon, was a man of renown. A man whose physical stature matched his reputation. Tall and broad with muscles as hard as the stone walls of Storm’s End. Of all the jousts he had participated in, Steffon had only been unhorsed by the best of men: Ser Barristan Selmy and former Prince Rheagar Targaryen.

Robert had many things to say about Rheagar, most of them very unflattering, but even he would acknowledge that the dragon-spawn was skilled in the art of war. The Targaryen had proved as much during the Battle of the Trident when his sword had found way to injury Robert. He hated the dead man with all the vigor a man could hate, but that did not take away from Rheagar’s skill.

However, for all of his father’s physique, Steffon was a man of even temperament who favored a jovial nature. His participation in tournaments was not out of the love of violence, but rather the enjoyment of the sportsmanship and competition. He was a strict lord, but fair; believing in the intention rather than letter of the law. There were many peasants and poor who still had their heads and hands only due to his father’s mercy and grace.

There was none who knew him and could find a harsh word to say. Like Robert, his father loved parties and feasts. He had hosted many as a way to liven up dreary winter years in the Stormlands. Lords would come from all over their territory to eat, drink, and dance. Even the Mad King preferred Steffon to Tywin and spoke of making his father Hand of the King before his father’s demise.

Robert’s mother was the opposite. Cassana Baratheon, formerly of House Estermont, was the woman who put the ‘storm’ in Storm’s End. When her ire had been sparked, everyone who could, gave his mother a wide berth. As physically opposing as his father was, even the well-loved Steffon Baratheon would conveniently find himself on the opposite end of the keep during his mother’s tantrums. He always said that her passion was what he love about her, but he was not willing to suffer it.

 And Robert could not blame him. When he or Stannis were victims of her tongue lashing, they proved more Estermont than Baratheon in those moments. They would hunch their shoulders around their heads and do their very best attempt at imitating a turtle. Their mother may have come from House Estermont, but she did very well in projecting the Words of House Baratheon. Only it was not ‘Ours is the Fury’, more like ‘She was the Fury’. Her screams could silence the loudest of thunder and drown out even the strongest of crashing waves.

But she was not always so. Most of the time, their mother was just their mother. Robert could remember her reading them stories as children when she saw them off to bed, telling them jokes ­­around the supper table, and encouraging them in most of their endeavors. It was not like Robert would expect his mother to supporting his whoring or laying with the servant girls. However, for as much as a rapscallion as he had grown to be, his mother never failed to greet him with a warm, welcoming embrace upon his return to their home from the Eyrie.

He was glad they had not lived to see him as he was. It would not have mattered to them that he was King of the Seven Kingdoms. What he had done and allowed to be done would have repulsed them.

His father would spur him because the war Robert had started was sprung from emotions and impulsiveness. He had started it because of the insult to his person. Robert did not care that thousands had died in his name for a slight against him when Rheagar kidnapped Lyanna. But his father would have. Steffon would have commanded a better way, a more peaceful way. And considering his favor with the Mad King, probably would have succeeded.

Though one of a volatile temper, his mother also would not have supported him. She would have raged against the slight against their House, but would have placed blame squarely upon Lyanna’s shoulders. It would have made no sense to her how the daughter of a Lord Paramount could just be whisked away by three men, even if those men where the Prince and two of the Kingsguard.

Then, there were the things done after his rebellion. Robert shuddered to think of what punishment his father would have doled out for his allowance of a woman and children of noble blood to be spilled without recompense. His mother would have probably chased him screaming from the keep only to drown him in Shipbreakers Bay.

That was not even considering their thoughts on his marriage and debt owed to House Lannister. If his actions to secure the Iron Throne were not enough to have them disown him, then the fact that his rule rested heavily upon the name of another House would have been. Though married for years, Cersei still referred to herself as Lannister. It was nothing to him because Robert had only married her on the word of Jon. A show of his ‘gratitude’ to Tywin’s House.

However, his parents would have minded very much that she thought her House above his own.

So, yes, he was very glad they were not alive to see the state their eldest son had fallen into.

Not that it truly mattered.

There was still his most beloved brother, Harry, to remind him.

For all their separation of age, Harry was the person in the circle he considered family that Robert got along with and loved most. More than his wife, Cersei. More than his son of three, Joffrey. More than the man he looked to as a father for many years, Jon Arryn. Even, his brother in all but blood, Ned Stark, fell a few inches short of hitting that mark.

Harry was the miracle child. After the birth of Stannis, it had taken his parents years to conceive again. No manner of potions from the maesters, no matter the change in diet, his mother appeared to have born her last son. Until Harry had come along. Not only was he born when his parents had all but given up hope, but only a year later his mother grew large again with Renly. After so many years without prospect, two sons born in almost as many years.

In truth, they all loved Harry. Amongst the brothers, each had their own reason, but it was vehemently clear that they favored Harry above each other.

His father loved Harry because he had inherited Steffon’s cheerful nature. There was not a soul within their keep that his young brother did not make smile or laugh at every available opportunity. There was also the fact, that even as a babe, he was the most even tempered of them. He spoke with polite smiles and sound words. Wise words that sounded ridiculous in his childish voice, but were still astute.

Their mother doted on him the most. Though she would never admit it, they all believed it was because Harry was the one to inherit most of her features. He had the strong Baratheon body, but his face was all their mother’s. The strongest of which were his eyes; almond shaped and green. Not emerald green, because to use so simple a term would not have done their mother justice.

They were the green of grass. The fresh and wonderful color of a dewy pasture just as the fog rolled away. Green that sparkled warmly and invitingly, rather than cold and lifeless. But just like their mother, they blazed like wildfire when his passion was stirred.

As the same as it was, it was also different. Where their mother would glare bloody murder and shout as though she were trying to deliver a message to Pentos, Harry…stared. He conveyed so much in his stares.

Which was why it did not matter that their parents were not alive. Harry had their father’s wisdom and mother’s ability to cow them with a look. A fact Robert became reacquainted with after his rebellion. He had forgotten how much Harry’s looks of disappointment could hurt until his younger brother had discovered and questioned him about the murders of Elia Martell and her children.

Oh, how that day would forever be seared into Robert’s memory.

Harry’s stare lanced through him with enough force to take his breath away, to make the stab of Rheagar’s sword feel like nothing more than a sting. Robert would rather be stabbed again than to see such looks upon his favored brother’s face ever again. The sheer and utter disappointment felt like someone had given him the sky to hold up, then punched him squarely in the stomach. If he were a lesser man, it would have dropped him to his knees. As it was, Robert almost did.

Harry’s forgiveness was the one thing, the only thing that had pushed Robert into giving him as hostage to Prince Doran. They could call it fostering, call it betrothal, but he was not a man who would mince words. A hostage, was a hostage, was a hostage. Just as a turd would always be a turd. No matter if it was painted gold and doused in perfume.

**FLASHBACK**

It was a strange feeling for Robert. To be sitting at the head of the table, yet feel as if he were on the last wrung. His brother sat at the end, the large council chair damn near engulfing his still growing body. Their positions had made them feel more like enemies than Robert would have ever wanted to feel with any of his brothers. Even Stannis, who Robert provoked to incite reaction. His brothers should always be at his side, never opposite of it.

Harry most of all.

Robert had such plans for his favorite brother. The young lad had proved his fortitude during the Siege of Storm’s End, never falling to despair when hunger clawed at their bellies like some vile beast. From the reports, Stannis had performed admirably in his duties to hold down the fort. However, it was Harry to lift their spirits up.

Rules of succession demanded that Robert make Stannis his heir, as much as he wished differently.

But for once the rules prevailed in his favor.

His stoic brother was much too demanding and strict when it came to the ways of lordship. With his reign as king, Robert worried over the state of their homeland should Stannis take the reins. He was a man of law and punishment, not exactly known as the most successful way of governing. That he had to make Stannis his heir, Lord of Dragonstone, quelled some of Robert’s worry.

It meant he could give Storm’s End and the title of Lord Paramount of the Stormlands to Harry, who was always the most patient among them. He would be more father than lord to the Stormlands and the Stormlords would love him as children loved their fathers.

But that was not all Robert would have of his favorite brother. True, he would see his family in positions of power. He had already had it in his mind to make Stannis Master of Ships, a convenient title to bestow upon him since his new home would be Dragonstone. However, Harry had always been destined for more. Their mother had always said that he would be more than any other third son could hope to be and Robert would see it so.

He planned on having the boy squire under Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest knight of the realm. There was no road in Harry’s life that would see him among the Kingsguard. Robert would not have his brother’s lineage die with him. But there were none alive Robert would rather teach his brother the ways of chivalry and battle. None more worthy.

When Harry had earned his knighthood Robert would see him Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, just to give him some years of experience under his belt. As king, Robert would have no trouble finding a wife for his brother. A beautiful young woman from a high standing and wealthy family that could supply a generous dowry.

Then finally, when all was set in order and Harry had a few years to give himself heirs, Robert would have him seen made Hand of the King. He would see his favorite brother be there not just for himself, but for his children. Just as Harry had always been the one to whisper in Robert’s ear, to give wisdom beyond his age to Robert in private, he would see his children heed to their uncle’s insight and usher a new age of beloved kings.

Robert loved Jon Arryn as a father, valued his knowledge. A fact that saw him present Hand of the King. But the man was getting along in his years. He should not need to worry about politics and ruling. Jon was thrice-wed and yet to secure himself an heir. Robert’s love for the man would rather have him ruling the lands of his forefathers and spawning all sort of chicks to raise as Jon had raised Robert and Ned. Alas, Harry was still too young of age for such responsibilities and there were none others that Robert trusted enough for such a powerful position.

There was Ned. However, his friend had made his wishes well known. Robert did not have the heart to keep him away from the frozen home that he spoke so highly about. The home of his own love.

However, those plans and thoughts were for another time. Judging from the look on Harry’s face, the pensive scowl that made his young visage look comically wizened, the topic he wished to broach was not one of pleasantness. It no doubt had something to do, again, with what he planned on doing about the disagreeable situation with Dorne.

“What are you doing of there, Harry? Come and sit at your place.” Robert said, indicating the chair to his right side. A subtle show of affection that would hopefully make the passing of their conversation easier.

True to form, Harry did not fuss. He did not make a mountain from a mole hill. His brother merely stood and gracefully planted himself in the chair. Even refusing help from Jon’s old bones to move the heavy piece of furniture. As he sat with Jon taking place at Robert’s left, Harry poured all three of them a cup of wine, taking it upon himself to play the gracious host. He could feel the tug on the corner of his lips when Harry had to partially stand on his chair to reach over to fill the Hand of the King’s cup.

Robert did not care that Harry was a tad too young to partake in wine. A sentiment not shared by Jon, who shot a disappointed look across the table. Who was he to deny the boy when he himself had started young in the Vale, away from the watchful eyes of his mother.

What did bother Robert was that his cup was filled almost to the brim, while theirs barely half full. Normally, this too would not have worried him. He loved his wine as much as any man. But that Harry, someone who always preached to Robert about moderation, had done it, did make Robert’s spine stiffen in his seat.

“Well, what’s this about then?” He asked, waiting no longer than for the words to exit before consuming already half of the cup. Robert had the feeling he would need the tingle and relaxation only good wine could offer.

“Have you considered what you will do about the situation with Dorne?” Jon broached the subject delicately.

Robert bit back a groan at having his beliefs cemented. It was not even he who had given the order for their deaths and yet it seemed as if he were the one to pay the price. He very well could not demand anything of Tywin Lannister. To do so would show favor for Dorne who had fought against him and ill towards his wife’s House; the very same House that had secured the throne for him.

“Who says anything must be done?” He fired back, turning on Jon.

“A Lord Paramount’s sister is raped and murdered. Her children brutally slain. And you believe nothing should be done?” Robert resisted turning to look at his brother as the youngest of them spoke. The tone of his voice was evident enough of what he expected the answer to be.

He did not turn because Robert knew what would happen. His tongue would become tied and his mind dumb. At least he could glare and snarl at Jon, who would bear it with all the grace of a subject to the king. His brother did not have such propensities.

Harry had always made it known that they were family. And there was no higher relationship or respect that extended higher than that. It was a small mercy Stannis and Renly were not of the same mind. Robert would yank all his hair out. He did that enough with Harry’s attitude alone.

“Robbie, look at me.”

Robbie.

A name their mother used for him. Their mother and Harry. A ridiculous pet name that he allowed only the two of them to use because Robert understood they meant it in affection, rather than condescension.

Unconsciously, his mind went to better days. Times when Harry was younger and they would laugh while riding horses or when Robert would demonstrate his prowess in the training yard for his younger brother to marvel at. His brother chanted his name in excitement back then. He could still hear it as clearly as sept bells, ‘Robbie! Robbie! Robbie!’. They were memories that faded quickly when Robert gave in to Harry’s request.

Such sadness.

Such bloody disappointment.

As if he expected Robert to change the very fabric of a man during war.

Horrible and nasty things happened in war. That was just the way of the world. The way it had been since the beginning of time. It was a universal truth.

Not that the truth helped Robert in his situation. Because he also knew another truth.

Elia Martell and her children had no need to die.

An even greater truth: they would have been more valuable alive.

With their lives in his hands not only would the Martell’s been quick to surrender, but any of the Targaryen Loyalists would be quick to also, lest something happen to the Targaryen descendants. They could have been hostages that could have secured his rule for decades. If they were treated well and the people prospered under his rule, in time they could have become nothing more than dressing. Having them alive presented many more possibilities.

Possibilities that were all null and void on the words of Tywin Lannister.

“What exactly can be done? You would have me go to my future good-father and demand the heads of his best attack dog and a son of one of his noble Houses?” Robert turned, yelling at Jon rather than Harry, making the man sigh and lower his head.

“No, Your Grace. Nothing so large. But, a small showing is better than none at all.” Jon replied.

“Speak plainly man!”

“The bones of their uncle to start.” Harry intervened, ever the voice to calm Robert’s temper. “We clean him,  his armor, and weapons before putting them in a grand casket befitting a loyal member of the Kingsguard for transportation so that he may have a proper burial.”

“Fine! If that is all you believe that is required to bring them to heal, then see it done. We will speak no more of this.” Robert stood abruptly.

It was only a few short paces to the door. He only needed a second or two to be out of the room. But a small hand with much more strength than any its size should have found his wrist. He mentally bemoaned his luck.

“Brother, please sit. You know that will not be all.” And sit he grudgingly did. With a heavy plop and a quick snatch of the wine pitcher Robert gave in. “Better to deal with a small wound now, than see it a life-threatening infection later.”

“Your brother is wise in his advice, Your Grace.” Jon intoned.

“He’s my brother!” Robert growled. “I bloody well know he is wise! Why do you think I’m still sitting here and listening to this nonsense!”

His breaths came in heaves. Jon was playing games, using his love for his brother to sell him something that he knew Robert would not have agreed to otherwise. Jon knew that Harry’s disappointment hurt him, was a wound in his side that could only be closed with forgiveness, and the man was exploiting it. Perhaps even worse, Robert knew that if Harry pushed the idea enough, he would submit…if only for his brother’s love. A cunning plan Robert would have whole-heartedly agreed with were it not being used against him.

“What would you have me do Harry?”

“Lord Arryn gave me a thought to ponder and after consideration, I agree that it is the best solution for us.” Harry opened.

“Speak on it then, brother. Let us be finished with this.” He exhaled and leaned into his chair.

“Upon Lord Arryn’s travel to Sunspear, I shall accompany him.” Robert perked up immediately. And not in a good way.

“The bloody hells you will!” He roared.

“Upon arrival, Lord Arryn will announce your request for me to foster at Sunspear –“

“My fucking balls I request it!”

“– as well as a betrothal contract between our two Houses. Specifically between myself and the daughter of Prince Doran.”

All he saw was red. Blood red and Jon’s rightfully frightened visage whom he wanted to be stained with it. Robert screamed and lunged across the table. His meaty paws all of a scant few inches away from the old lord’s face when Harry jumped on his back.

“Calm down, Robbie!” His brother yelled into his ear.

“Gods damn it, Harry! Let me go! I don’t want to hurt you! Just let me kill him real quick!”

“It was I that brought this idea.” Harry tried to reason, grunting form the strain of holding Robert’s limbs from traveling the necessary distance. But Robert was hearing none of it.

“On his words!” He shouted back, before focusing on his target who stood behind a chair as if it would stop him. No measly construction of wood, cotton, and silk would halt him. Not even the strongest walls would. “You would poison young ears! The young ears of my brother with such suicidal foolishness! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Robbie, you love him remember? You can’t kill a man who was like a father to you.”

It halted him for a moment. He tried to conjure those emotions. Tried to remember the feelings and affection he held for the man who had helped raised him in the Vale. And it helped a little.

“Fine.” Robert sighed, relaxing for a moment in hopes of getting Harry to let go, before lunging again. “I won’t kill him! I’ll just bloody his face! Pound it to mush!”

“That’ll kill him.” Harry sighed, clearly unsatisfied with his reasoning.

“Just let me throttle him a little! I’ll stop before his final breath gives!”

“Robert!”

He froze. Harry only called him that in dire situations. Not even on formal occasions did he resort to such a tone an name.

Robert was transported back in time. To when he used to pick on Stannis for sport. A point in time when Harry forcefully reminded them that they were brothers and jest in affection and fun was alright, but not for the sake of torment.

Oh, how his brother had planted himself into the ground like the mightiest of Northern trees. Robert’s size advantage had not given Harry pause or caused him to show fear back then. His feet sunk into the ground and he glared like he had an army behind him.

It was no different when Harry clambered off his back to stand on the table and glare down at him. Their height difference nullified, Robert could see the colossus his brother’s willfulness was.

Part of it was how he was reminded of his parents as he looked up slightly to match his brother’s gaze. All the height of his father with their mother’s heated glare upon him. It was all Robert could not do to turtle. And just like their mother when her outrage had subsided, the love in his eyes made Robert feel relieve that he had weathered the storm.

He felt himself grow lax as Harry’s childish hands rested against the smooth skin of his cheek. Never one to be short of words, Robert found himself speaking much gentler than the rage in his chest urged him to.

“You can’t expect me to agree to this Harry. You can’t.” He sighed softly.

“I would ask you to for the sake of peace brother. Let us be the one to stop the killing.”

“I would rather go back to war than throw you into that viper’s den.”

So many things could go wrong. The Martell’s need not make it obvious with Harry in their grasps. He could conveniently trip out of a window, fall to some mysterious illness, or just plain go missing after a ride in the desert. They could cover up their revenge as a youthful boy’s willfulness or negligence of servants. Either way, their hands would be clean of blame strong enough to kill them over.

“I was disappointed in you when I heard you allowed men to go unpunished for the deaths of innocents.” Harry said, causing Robert to swallow excuses that he wanted to vomit and a cringe. “But I do not love you less for it. I am asking this of you and should you deny me knowledge that the realm could be at peace, you will still be my brother. I will still not love you any less. But I will be saddened greatly. Show me you are the king, that you are the man I know you can be, Robbie.”

Harry smiled at him, removing himself from the table to stand on the cobblestone flooring. He looked up at him, hands clasped behind his back, with eyes so full of hope. His brother expected him, hoped for him to do the ‘right thing’. And as much as it pained him, Robert could not bear for that look of faith entrusted upon him to be replaced with disappointment. He could not be the reason for Harry to regret trusting him.

It would be a lie to say that he did not wish to have his way, to implement his own plans. His heart dropped into his stomach and his pride jeered at him, but Robert’s resolve caved. Bent over like an alley whore for a silver stag. And it made him want to vomit.

“I had such plans for you, Harry. Grand plans. If I agree, you will be giving up your rights to Storm’s End. You will not be a lord, but a Prince…consort.” The very word made him want to gag. “Are you set upon this?”

“I understood that before ever coming to you with this.” Came Harry’s sure reply. The boy could very well be walking into a death trap, but did so fearlessly.

“And still? You would give up ruling our home? Ruling the land of our father and mother? To be nothing more than arm dressing for some Dornish girl? I hear her beauty is nothing so inspiring.” He was stretching, grasping at any reason his mind could find to get his brother to change his mind.

“It is a price I am willing to pay for your rule to be one of peace. The end of the Targaryens was bought with much blood, let not us be the one to make the rest of the world continue to pay such a heavy sum.” Harry replied, placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Besides, I will still be brother to the king. A powerful title unto itself.”

He had said it with a smile, a pretense at jest to lighten the mood. However, it did nothing for Robert other than conjure enough strength to give a small smile in return. It was half-assed and weak, Robert’s heart not in a cheerful mood.

A betrothal was supposed to be a joyous affair. His to Lyanna had been. Yet, it was not. He knew that almost none were betrothed for love. Marriage was for alliances or another gain. There was no gain for Robert and his House. Dorne was a poorer kingdom than both the Stormlands or the Crownlands. The girl was no great beauty who his brother could boast about. There was nothing for Robert than a dubious peace. One that was attached to sure heartache.

His brother had been strong all his life and it was a trend that deemed destined to continue. For it was Harry that was making the true sacrifice. As hurtful as it would be for Robert to lose his brother to a land so far away, it was Harry’s life on the line. He should have said ‘no’ and carried the burden. But it was not one he was sure he could.

“So be it.” Were the only words he could gather. Robert knew that his brother looked at him proudly. He could feel it when Harry patted his shoulder, as if congratulating him on a job well done.

But Robert could not bear to look at him. He could not see the pride without immediately feeling regret. Instead, he stared straight at the chair Harry had previously sat on and imagined images of a future Harry, symbol of the Hand pinned to his chest. It was only a fantasy, but it eased the pain a little.

“Go and see Ser Barristan. We will be the ones to take over your martial lessons until you depart. I will be along shortly.” Robert said, gathering himself enough to at least give an pretense of an assuring smile to his brother.

“Are we fine, brother?” Harry asked comfortingly.

“We have always had our disagreements, Harry. Mostly because you feel the need to be so opinionated.” Robert jested, glad that he could still make Harry laugh. “But we will always be fine.”

“I shall find Ser Barristan then.” He was watched as Harry gave Jon a nod and walked towards the door. His brother was halfway out when he turned his head over his shoulder. “The man was only doing his job, Robbie. A job you tasked him with. You are not the sort of king to punish his subjects for such a thing.”

“Ha! Think no more on it, brother. You know how me and my temper are. All bluster in the moment.” Robert waved away his concern.

“Yes, Robbie. I do know you.” Harry said meaningfully.

“You have my word. On my honor, Harry, no harm shall come to him for this.” Robert assured. But Harry did not move, did not even turn his head to the front. “By the gods. Should I harm him, I will not visit the brothels for a week. Does that make you feel better?”

“A month.” Harry stated. “And no wine of any kind for two weeks.”

“A stiff bargain, but as I am sure that I am not going to kill him. I will accept.”

Satisfied, Harry quietly closed the door. As soon as it was shut, Robert leaned over to ensure that he had truly left, even counting to twenty in case Harry had forgotten something.

“You handled this very well, Your Grace. Other than your–“

Like a snake, his hand large hands clamped around Jon’s face. Robert’s fingers could feel the old bones underneath wrinkly skin. It would have been so easy to just squeeze and tear away the man’s jaw. The very thought was tempting.

So…damn…tempting.

“He speaks on your behalf. Speaks your fucking toxic thoughts from his lips. His belief in me and in your insane idea is all that keeps me from sending you back to the Eyrie as a corpse.” Robert growled, keeping the beast that roared for blood at bay. “But should anything happen to him, anything at all, it will be on your head. I will allow you that fact before I part it from you. Do we understand?”

Jon did not take kindly to being handled. But his feelings were not very high on the list of Robert’s concerns. Let his feelings be hurt, so long as his message was clear.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

Robert nodded once and let the man go.

“Good. Now leave me. I can no longer stand the fucking sight of you.” He said, turning his back on the man he loved as his blood.

**END FLASHBACK**

Robert had made Jon’s life a living hell when he returned from Dorne. The task he had set to do was successful and Dorne had sworn fealty, but it brought little joy to Robert. For months, there was not a day that had gone by that Robert did not think on Harry’s safety. He had specifically tasked Varys with it being on the top of his list of priorities. Any mention of serious danger to Harry’s person and Robert was to be informed immediately. Morning, day, or night no matter the circumstances. Until Varys sent him confirmation, he waited with trepidation to hear of something foul befalling Harry.

It had taken years for his and Jon’s relationship to approach anything quantifying normal. For a long time, Robert had done everything he could to make the position of Hand of the King to be as difficult as possible. Missed meetings, ventured unannounced out of the castle, among other things. Anything he could do to make the man’s duties problematic was done.

But time had a way of cooling tempers. It helped immensely that Harry not only survived in Dorne, but thrived.

Squire to the Red Viper of Dorne, well renowned for his abilities with the sword and spear. Prince Oberyn was no Ser Barristan, but considering the circumstances Robert did not mind greatly the Dornish man as a replacement. True, he hadn’t been particularly thrilled about it at first. However, Oberyn was a better warrior than most and Harry had to continue with his lessons.

There was also the business he had started, one that had made his brother one of the most respected men in all of Dorne. It was sponsored by Prince Doran himself and other nobles from all over the southern kingdom ventured far to place themselves and their families into Harry’s tender mercies. Granted, it would never make him the mountains of gold that Little Finger’s brothel did, but it was a respectable establishment. A mole hill of gold and adoration fit Harry much better than being known as a flesh peddler.

Lastly, Robert had heard word of how that ugly little thing Harry had willingly chained himself to was turning into quite the budding beauty. She still had years to go before womanhood was through with her, but at only three-and-ten the Princess Arianne was starting to gracefully bloom. The combination of her Rhynoish and Norvosi blood was sure to make her a truly exotic looking beauty.

“I did not know you capable of such expressions.”

Lord Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark, Lord Paramount of the North, Lord of Winterfell, and Robert’s brother in all but blood. He was shorter than Robert’s six-foot-six and was much more slender, but no less a skilled warrior. Ned was the opposite side of Robert were they a coin. Robert was boisterous and easy to get along with, whereas Ned preferred a quiet and patient demeanor. They called him the ‘Stoic Wolf’ with good reason.

Their differences were what saw them becoming best friends. Robert sought to have Ned live grander than the Northern man was accustomed to and in return, Ned had kept him grounded during their time at the Vale. They were balanced when together. Though Robert took much more pleasure in corrupting the noble Northman.

“What expressions?” Robert questioned, gesturing to the chair beside him and pouring his friend a cup of wine.

“One of pensiveness.” Ned replied with a small smile, letting Robert know he came in jest.

“Oh, is my head so empty, it is incapable of thought?” Robert asked with a grin.

“I thought it so filled with wine and memories of women past, nothing else would be able to fit, Your Grace.”

Robert roared in laughter, nearly choking on his wine. He smacked Ned in the shoulder good naturedly, making the man’s entire body shake with the blow.

“What troubles you, Robert?” Ned asked when their laughter had subsided and just like that, Robert was dragged back down from his high. Leave it to Ned Stark to bring a man back down to the ground. Or to the sea as it was, since they were aboard ships as they laid siege to Pyke.

“My brother.” He replied monosyllabically.

“Stannis? He has done well–“

“Not him. Harry.” Robert corrected.

“Why would you worry about Harry? He is in–“ When Robert could not look at him, it only took Ned a few moments to piece together the source for his friend’s worry, “–please tell me you didn’t Robert.”

“You very well know I did.” Robert stated.

“He is too young for this.” Ned shot back heatedly. “War, Robert? You drag your favorite brother to war?”

“You have issue with Stannis leading the royal ships?”

“That is different.” Ned cut him off, knowing where his friend’s mind leap to. “Stannis has already married, has a child, and been a man for many years. Young Harry has done none of those things.”

“He buoyed the morale of the men during the Siege.” Robert was quick to remind Ned. “He is no stranger to the Stranger, nor to the ills of war! My brother is a man now, regardless of how young you think he may be!”

Harry was his family. His blood. He would not have anyone tell him on how his family should be dealt with. Not after his capitulation to Jon Arryn’s idea for Harry to be fostered in Dorne. Robert would never allow another to twist his family for the sake of their own goals; no matter how noble they may be.

“I said nothing to you when you decided to bring your bastard son home to your new wife. I have never questioned how you run your household, I would expect the same respect from the man who calls me friend.”

Ned took a figurative step back, looking to the ground as if the planks of the ship held answers. A part of it was shame Robert knew. Shame of disgracing his wife with the presence of a bastard under the same roof they shared with their children. An honorable thing for a man to do, but also exponentially foolish. If Robert had done the same thing, he would never sleep from the nagging Cersei would drum into his ears.

“You claim to love him, boldly so above all your other brothers. And what if something were to happen to him, Robert? War is an uncertain time. Even the best of men can be felled with a lucky arrow or stray swing of a sword. What would become of you then? Do you remember how you became at the news of my sister’s death? I feared you would have been much worse if not for the presence of Young Harry. Who will be there to console you should he die? Who will be there to quiet the demons in your head that say that it was your fault, that you had led him to death?”

The thought had occurred to Robert. Many, many times. However, each time seemed more absurd than the last. Harry could not die. There was no version of his life that Robert could fathom without his brother in it.

Away in Dorne, running his hospice, with a dozen Dornish children – legitimate or otherwise ­– was easy to stomach. Even the unlikely reality where Harry demanded his engagement to the Martell girl off and returned back to his rightful place as Lord of the Stormlands Robert could imagine. Hells, he preferred that reality among them all, even if it would once again bring Dornish hostility.

But in none of them was Harry not alive. He had survived the better part of a year under siege. Prospered in the hands of a family Robert could only label as hostile. There was no way his brother would survive all of that, only to perish in a minor rebellion. Robert had ensured that the odds would ever be in his favor.

There was no need to rally the majority of the Stormlands fleets or so many of the banners. Robert had secured it to see his brother well protected.

“Nothing will happen to him.” Robert finally said, secured in his strategy.

“But what if something does.” Ned pressed on.

“It won’t.” He pressed back.

“But what if something does.”

Robert broke, his famous temper rising out of him with all the force of an erupting volcano. And just like a volcano, he had no care to what or who was in his way.

“Then anyone who even has a hint of Ironborn blood will know the meaning of the words of our House! They shall reap my fury as I descend all my armies upon them like a fucking whirlwind! I will tear down their keeps of stone and rebuild them of the skulls and bones. Such death and anguish I will bring upon them by land, sea, and the gods damned air if need be, that they will think me their storm god made flesh!” He roared, throwing his cup of wine to the ground so hard it bounced away as if a pup kicked.

His chest heaved and his shoulders with them as the King of the Seven Kingdoms breathed raggedly. His face to turn red, the color of blood and anger. But, Ned just stared impassively waiting for his tirade to be over.

“And yet, for all you will do, your brother would still be dead.”

A crewman saved Lord Stark from reaping Robert’s temper.

“Your Grace, ships approach from the east.”

Robert spared his friend another glare, a warning that they would never speak of such ill thoughts ever again. There was much Robert would tolerate from his best friend. But the very notion of Harry’s death, or thought Robert would ever be responsible, was not one of them.

“Their sails?” Robert asked, shouldering his way past Ned. “What standard does the lead ship display?”

“The green turtle of House Estermont, Your Grace.” The crewman replied.

“Is it large or small?” Robert continued to question.

“Your Grace?” The youngest in the room posed quizzically.

“Large or small man! Is the ship large or small! Is there nothing but air between your ears!”

“Robert, be easy on the poor boy. I’m sure he was just confused.” Ned came between them, as if their earlier argument had never happened.

“What is there to be confused about? Large or small? It is a stupidly straightforward question!”

“Uh...larger than most, but not so large as Your Grace’s ship.” The young man finally replied, stuttering the whole way through. He was even more shocked when the King wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. Only very briefly, but it was done nonetheless.

“Ha! You see, Ned! You worried over nothing!” Robert said, bringing the Stark into a hug, the animosity between them seemingly forgotten. “Harry sails this way victorious from Harlaw! And a day early to boot!”

“Good fortune then.” Ned nodded, relieved that nothing had befallen the younger Baratheon brother.

“Other news, Your Grace. Reports are that the siege has been doing remarkably well over the past two days. It is assumed that the walls of Pyke should fall soon.”

“The gods smile upon us!” Robert boasted. “Before the day is through we shall be feasting in Balon Greyjoy’s halls! How long until my brother’s arrival?”

“If the waves are with him, then no more than an hour, Your Grace.”

“Good, good. Fetch me my squire. I would don my armor before his arrival.” Robert instructed.

“At once, Your Grace.” The crewman said, beating a hasty retreat to carry out his orders.

“You would have him seen you in splendor.” Ned devised.

“It has been many years since we had last seen each other. I would have him see me in glorious armor, rather than plain drabs.”

“There is nothing plain of your garb other than design, my friend.” Ned pointed out, causing Robert to look down to his attire.

Sure enough, it was clothes fit for a king. A black samite long sleeved doublet, fitted with gold buttons and minor trimming along the cuffs and tail. His pants and boots were made of the best deer skin.

It was true that they were no commoners garb and conveyed the sense of majesty and wealth as king’s should. However, it was a pale comparison to the regal visage of sterling full-plate with great antlers mounted upon his helm and his war-hammer in hand. That, along with his charismatic personality, was something that had inspired thousands of men to follow him into battle.

“Still, many years. I would like to make an impression. On that note, you should go an put on your armor as well.”

“For what purpose?” Ned queried.

“My brother has only heard stories of you. On your first meeting, I would have him see those stories genuine.”

“Oh, Robert.” Ned groaned exasperatedly. “What have you told him?”

“Nothing that was untrue.” He came to his own defense quickly. “There may have been some embellishment on my part, but not a lick of it was false.”

Robert had regaled many times of their past exploits and adventures in the Vale. There were plenty to be had over the years as neither had been to the kingdom before. He told Harry about their trips to the Blood Gates, the small skirmishes they had fought against the Mountain Tribes, and beautiful women they had entertained. Maybe the numbers of the clan members they had fought off or number of women they had bedded slightly made more numerous for dramatic effect, but they had happened.

“And make sure you are holding Ice when Harry arrives. I doubt my brother has seen Valyrian steel, as I know of no family in Dorne that carries such weapons.”

“Is this not a bit much Robert? He has already captured Harlaw and I can only wonder how it will affect him to have seen such bloodshed, regardless of whether he had partaken. Should you not usher him back to Dorne? Back into the arms of the young woman that is no doubt waiting for him?” Ned urged his friend kindly.

“And have him miss our victory? The bloody Wall will melt first. I would have my brother here to share in our glory. Besides, I have not seen my brother for years and your advice would have me send him back so soon?” Robert rhetorically questioned, as his squire had entered and quickly moved around them to fetch the armor.

He gave the boy no acknowledgement or help other than to raise his arms so that his breastplate may be fastened. The boy was a Lannister, nephew to Tywin. He had done enough service to that House by taking him as his squire. Robert need not do the boy any favors.

“Send him to Riverrun by way of Seagard. Lord Hoster Tully is my good-father and would surely see him well taken care of. We will even send letter with both our seals to see it done.” Ned reasoned. “When all is well and done, there will no doubt be a celebration to your victory. Send for him then.”

His friend’s reasoning was fine. But Robert was nothing if not a stubborn man. There was a reason, other than glory, that he wanted Harry to participate. He wanted Harry to see firsthand just how badly war could affect a man. Maybe then he would understand. His brother would realize that as distasteful the death of his future wife’s aunt was, it was just a casualty of war. That it was not his brother’s anger or recklessness that had seen the woman and her children killed.

“I have made my decision, Ned.” Robert stated firmly. “Now, go put on your armor and ready yourself to meet my brother.”

They shared a stare, competed on who would cave first. It sure as hell was not going to be Robert. He knew Ned. The man was too honorable to disobey Robert, his brother whom he had sworn fealty to. His command was given. Ned would obey.

“As you will, Your Grace. I shall return shortly.”

 _Damn right you will._ Robert thought, keeping his eye on Ned until the man had left. If Robert had not known better, he would have sworn Ned and Harry were cut from the same cloth. They both gave him the same kind of headache.

It was convenient he had someone he could take his anger out on.

“Faster, boy!” He shouted. “You still need to buff my war-hammer. If I am tardy to greet my brother as he boards you will be cleaning horse shit for so many moons you will think yourself a stable-boy!”

“Yes, Your Grace!” The boy squeaked, to Robert’s amusement.

_My brother coming soon and a Lannister who quakes before me. It’s good to be King._


	8. Chapter 8

_ 289 AC – Ten Towers, Harlaw, Iron Islands _

 

Harry eyed the gathered lords in disappointment, a fact they were either uncaring or oblivious to.

 

It was only a day ago Harry had subdued the island of Harlaw through the surrender of Rodrik Harlaw. A victory that had gone exactly as he had hoped: bloodless. They had walked into the largest keep on the island not as conquerors, but guests.

 

A few feathers may have been ruffled, Ser Harras’s surely to be one of them, but nowhere near the level of violence and death sieges rose to. Harry would know, he had suffered through one.

 

None of that mattered to the Stormlords however. Or if it did, then it had the same amount of attention as Harry’s disappointment had.

 

They were arguing with each other on what their equal split of reparations would be. To the victor go the spoils after all, some joked.

 

It boggled his own mind as to why they would need reparations. The lords and their armies did little but stand there. Even when Harras had crossed the line they did little but mutter and grumble and posture. None of them had come to Harry’s aid or spoke a meaningful word.

 

He knew that pillage, rape, and plunder were as much a part of their type of war as swords, shields, and spears. It was the victor’s way of imposing themselves psychologically upon the losers. Making their enemies feel less than men for being unable to protect their property and women.

 

That did not mean he agreed.

 

War he could not control. But it should not be senseless. That was not the sort of person Harry was and certainly not the sort of commander he was going to be. If they did not already know, they would.

 

“My lords, my lords.” Harry sighed and raised his hand to garner their eyes and ears. But their minds were too occupied with riches, their eyes blinded by the glitter and ears burdened by the clinking of illusory gold coins. Harry signaled Obara, who stood faithfully to his left, to collect their attention.

 

He would not waste his voice on squabbling children.

 

For that was all that Harry saw looking upon those grown men. Youth and obliviousness, and all the trappings that came with it. Pride. Selfishness. Callousness.

 

Harry knew they would never allow him, someone who looked as young as their own children, to guide them. But he would try, attempt to instill some humanity, even if it meant using their own methods.

 

Obara slammed her spear against their table three times, each strike echoing like thunder. “Shut your fucking mouths!” She bellowed, certainly accomplishing her task. More harshly than he would have preferred, but considering the source…

 

“Now see here, woman!” Lord Foote whirled on Obara with indignation. It was a posturing anger brought to a screeching halt by the quick, sharp point of her spear.

 

“See what _old man_?” Obara stressed, pressing him to retreat, “How well you bleed?”

 

“Lord Hadrian, this behavior is unbecoming.” Lord Foote switched his attention, if not his eyes, as he was backed into the chair of another sitting lord.

 

Harry desperately wished to point out the hypocrisy of his statement. That their own behavior was unbecoming of men who called themselves ‘noble’. But even he knew that it would do no good. It would do nothing but alienate them, more than they would be by their meeting’s end.

 

“Now that I have your attention, allow me to settle this topic.” He started, waving Obara to stand down.

 

The crowd’s attentions were razor sharp then. Each lord stared and leaned in, awaiting to hear what poundage of flesh they were entitled to.

 

“There will be no monetary reparations taken from Harlaw.”

 

The hall erupted with the most raucous of cacophonies. Lords stood, chairs flew to the ground, fists pounded against the table, wine splash every which way and spittle flew from bearded mouths as they bemoaned the unfairness of it all.

 

Harry allowed them their moment and held Obara back, lest she cause another display. It was doubtful to be as effective anyway. He allowed them their tantrums because it was all they were going to get.

 

There were much words exchanged, some name calling, and more than a few curses, but what caught Harry’s attention was, “Where is the fairness in this?”

 

He turned to look at the man who last spoke. An older man by the silver of his hair, from House Errol given the tunic bearing a haystack on a field of orange.

 

Harry held his hand high, signaling the others to silence themselves. Having learn from just moment ago, they slowly came to a rumble. They even seated when Harry motioned for them to, albeit begrudgingly.

 

The only to stay standing was Lord Errol, frozen still in his outrage of perceived slight.

 

“Fairness?” Harry questioned, head tilting at such a strange question.

 

“Aye, fairness.” The Lord of Haystack Hall spat. “Did we not come when the King called? Did we not gather our ships and our bread, water, and wine for the voyage? Do we not pay our levy? But now we wish for our due and you say we are not entitled? You? You who now possesses a sword worth kingdoms will not allow us our pittance?”

 

The lords were on their high horses at the words, chests full of hot air as Lord Errol so casual lay blame upon Harry. And if that was how they wished it to go, he would oblige them.

 

“Do you have a wife, Lord Errol?” He asked.

 

“What does that–“

 

“Do you have a wife, my lord?” Harry cut him off. An unexpected question in the context, one that drew the other lords in as they also wondered where Harry was taking his inquisition.

 

“Yes.” Lord Errol admitted.

 

“Do you have children?” was the next question.

 

“What–“

 

“All in good time my lord.” Harry smile patiently. “Please, the question. Do you have children?”

 

“Yes, I have children.” The lord ground out.

 

“So you and your wife have lain together.”

 

“Now see here! This is–“

 

“Did you pay her after?” Harry asked, getting to the crux of the matter.

 

The expressions on their faces was priceless. Scandalous, horrified, they did not know if they should inhale or exhale. Lord Errol looked like every blood vessel in his head would burst from the pressure.

 

“Did you pay her?”

 

“Of course not!” Lord Errol exploded.

 

“Why not?” Harry chased his answer.

 

“Because it is her duty! Just as it is the duty of any wife!”

 

“Then why should any of you be paid for doing your duty?”

 

“What nonsense–“

“Is it not your duty as a sworn-lord to come when the King summons?” Harry asked, not waiting for the known answer, “then why do you expect to be paid for what is unquestioningly your own duty?”

“That is not the same thing.” Lord Errol’s teeth gnashed tightly.

“Oh? Pray tell how not.” The lords and knights grumbled, searching in each other’s faces an answer to prove Harry wrong.

They could stretch the truth. Say that they did, in a way, pay a price for their wives to be obedient. Merlin knew it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for some of them. But Harry wagered – successfully as it would seem – that none in the room would admit it and more likely, none would admit that they were so mercenary.

When it looked like their brains were ready to melt from the inability to circumvent the reasoning, Harry put them out of their misery. He didn’t want to guilt or shame them. He just expected them to do the right thing. More so, he wanted them to _want_ to do the right thing.

“My lords,” he calmed their petulant grousing, “I am not unreasonable. I understand that you have expended resources to usher troops from the Stormlands to fight for your king. So, take from the lords of Harlaw twice the amount of bread, meat, water, and wine that you have used for the journey. One portion to reimburse you for the voyage here and a second for the voyage home.”

“What about the money we pay our levy? Is it not only right that we recover that as well?” Some lord asked from the crowd.

“No,” Harry spoke in the direction, holding up his hands again when the volume of their voices threatened to overwhelm his own, “however should a man die, then take three moons worth of his salary and an additional tenth for funeral costs, both to be given to his family. Other than this, any man who has been found to have taken so much as a blade of grass, shall be made to set it right.”

“And what if I notice a twisted blade upon my boot halfway through the Summer Sea? Should we command our ship to turn for me to put it back?” A sarcastic laughter came.

“No,” Harry closed his eyes, before finding the smart ass. He leveled his stare at the lord, who recoiled at being found so easily amongst the crowd, “you will swim back.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lord Errol finally blurted out, his face having reddened from holding his outrage. “This is not how things are done!”

Harry took a breath. More importantly, he took hold of Obara to keep the woman from doing anything rash. He doubted she would kill the man, as he was a lord. A Stormlord to be sure, but a lord nonetheless. But even should she split his lip – not too uncommon of a rashness for her – it would still give Harry a headache he had no need nor want of.

“My Lord Errol, this is how things are done and will continue to be done so long as you are under my command.” Harry stated as pleasantly as he could care to muster. The man was starting to wear on his last nerve.

“Then maybe I won’t-“

“Choose your words carefully, Lord Errol.” Harry warned. “I do not mean to assume, but it sounded as if your words bordered on sedition. And, for as heated as our discussion may be, I know that you would not even contemplate treason.”

He hoped the man would take the out and silence himself. There was plenty Harry would let go, plenty he could let go. The speaking of treason was not one of them. Treason was well beyond Harry’s realm of inference because while the words may be said towards him, the actions were not.

However, common sense and self-preservation seemed to leave the Lord of Haystack Hall. Pride had stood him tall and he jumped to a doom of his making.

“It is no treason to not rally under a foreigner. And you are no Stormlander!”

It was just by the skin of his teeth that Harry did not remind the man of who he was and where he was born. That his mother and father had been Lord and Lady Baratheon of Storm’s End, the House he and his ancestors were sworn to. He did not remind the man because it would’ve been pointless.

They knew all that, but Lord Errol and others of the same mind, only saw what they wanted to see. They saw Harry’s sand-silk robes, heard his stressed syllables, and perhaps most of all, they saw that he would not be easily swayed. That above all was enough. No manner of reasoning with any of them would change their minds.

If that was how they wanted to behave, then Harry would reciprocate in kind. Because it was for their own good.

“You will sail with me to Pyke, Lord Errol, just as will you all.” Harry stood to address the seated lords. “You will sail and be happy about it because just as why we sailed to Harlaw, just as why I am in command, we do as the king calls us to do.”

He allowed no more words to be said. Or at least, Harry did not allow the lords to believe he would continue to listen. The less he heard the less trouble they could get themselves in.

“And if we don’t?” Errol challenged. The wrong words to say, as was evident by the other lords pointed looking away, if not altogether putting much needed distance between them and Lord Errol.

Harry stilled himself by the door, looked over his shoulder, and delivered a grim truth, “To do as such is treason…and even I can’t save you from that.”

oOoOoOoOo

_ Sunset Sea, Pyke _

He and Obara sat quietly aboard the quarterdeck as they sailed towards Pyke. Heeding his words, sense overcame the Stormlords and they voyaged along. Like petulant children having to be dragged to out of bed at the crack of dawn, but come they did.

The winds were strong and filled their sails, allowing them to slice through the current like a sword. It took no time at all for them to reach the outer ships of the siege on Pyke. Even quicker still was word that passed down from the King. Harry was expected post haste.

“I still don’t see why I can’t come with you,” Obara said as they made towards the gangplank, “Are you embarrassed by me?”

Harry did not bother to cover how deep his eyes rolled at the question. He did not know why, but it seemed as if that question was every woman’s go-to when told they could not accompany. Some would call it common sense to not have her within spear-stabbing vicinity of a man her entire family took issue with, but to Obara it must be evidence of his shame.

“You will not be idle. There is no need for you to go on playing nice with my brother.”

“Who said I was going to play nice?” She sneered.

“And that is why you can’t come with me." Harry nodded succinctly. Obara snorted.

"You may take issue with me not playing nice, but I have even larger concern with playing your messenger." Obara grumbled. "I’m hardly known for my ability to wax on poetically, it makes no sense for me to deliver a message.”

"It saves time." Harry shrugged. "The lords know you and your connection to me, so they will take your words as my own."

"And it gives you a convenient excuse for me not to accompany you." Obara said.

"Yes." He admitted as much.

"So, it is not shame, but mistrust that I'll not behave myself." She accused, never mind that she had just admitted to such only a few moments ago.

"I'm saving you from yourself, Obara." he said with a heavy sigh.

"It is not your duty to protect or save me." She snorted irately.

"No, it is not." he conceded. "But I do have love for you, so will continue to do so anyway.”

She turned away, suddenly finding their surroundings so interesting.

"Fine," She grumbled, barely audible above the noise, "I will do this. But I am not happy."

"Well, then you and the Stormlords can commiserate over your unhappiness with me together." He chuckled.

“Harry!” came the voice that Harry would recognize anywhere. He gave his attention to the ship they approached, a massive war galley of two hundred oars, proudly flying the gold and black of his house. The owner Harry could not help but notice. Balon Greyjoy himself probably could have seen his brother from the battlements of Castle Pyke.

True to his brother’s nature, Robert was dressed in blinding gold plate, his large antlered helm resting under one arm and his warhammer held in his other hand like a staff of office. He stood tall, proud, a beaming smile taking up most his face.

Beside him was a man as opposite to Robert as Harry and Obara were to each other. From his hair to his skin to his armor and the furs that were perched about his shoulders, the man was drab of color. A grim countenance as severe as Robert’s was jubilant. Indeed, perhaps the only thing the man had in common with his brother was that they shared a similar height and fondness for large weapons.

Harry gave his brother a smile and small wave as squires and sailors readied to settle the gangway, before turning to Obara. The decision to busy her with the Stormlords seemed a much better idea with the scowl on her face. A scowl only a few visible teeth away from being a snarl.

“Go.” He urged her away. “Give my message to the lords now so that there may be time for word to reach every man and their minds be firmly made upon my return.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Obara grumbled, as she stalked towards the stern.

Seeing her disappear into another ship, he walked towards his brother, the man grinning like an idiot, but still managing to maintain his kingly bearing. Harry was surprised his armor did not clink and clank from barely contained excitement.

“Robbie.” Harry inclined his head.

“By all the gods, Ned.” Robert nudged his friend’s breastplate, ”I hear my brother’s voice, but can see nothing under all that Dornish livery.”

His smile gave the joke away, but Harry could understand the feeling. Whereas they were in heavy plate and furs, he stood in scale and silks. It truly did seem as if they came from different worlds.

“Shut up and embrace me.” Harry opened his arms with a shake of his head and smile on his lips.

“I don’t know.” Robert eyed the swords Harry held in hand and across his back, “you look like a Dornishman. You sound like a Dornishman. What say you, Ned? Do I trust a Dornishman with a sword to my back?”

The Stark of Winterfell demonstrated his knowledge of Robert’s antics by ignoring his friend, but still giving a soft chuckle.

Harry did not even get to give a counter-barb when Robert broke out in joyous merriment, dropping pretense and noble countenances. He was reminded of just how small he was in comparison when his brother lifted him into the air, armor and swords and all.

“Just look at you,” Robert held him at arm’s reach as Harry’s feet touched the deck again, “so it takes a rebellion for you to come see me, eh?”

“I’ve been busy,” Harry looked upon his brother fondly, a bit disheartened to hear the measure of truth in his words. Even if it was in jest, it had been too long since Harry had seen any of his brothers and if it weren’t for Robert summoning him, it would probably have been longer. “Though I could say the same for you.”

“Aye,” His brother nodded solemnly, “but if you believe yourself busy with that small hovel in the middle of Sunspear, then what more I with Seven Kingdoms?”

“Firstly, it is no small hovel,” Harry played at being insulted, “Secondly, are we going to pretend you don’t thrust the responsibility of being king upon Jon Arryn’s shoulders?”

“Call the king irresponsible do you? Or is it incompetent?” Robert puffed his chest.

“We could call it ‘hum-drub-boo-blah’, does it make me any less right?” Harry challenged.

“Your Grace,” Lord Stark saw fit to interject for the first time since his arrival, “perhaps these are words best exchanged in private.”

“It would be no use, Ned.” Robert waved away his friend’s counsel, “my head will ache in private or public. My brother says whatever crosses his damn mind.”

“That’s what you love about me.” Harry grinned causing Robert to cynically scoff.

“I didn’t die in my rebellion, I very well may brave through this one, but the gods know, your rebellious attitude will be the death of me one day,” Robert said before putting Harry into a headlock, “it just shows their humor that they made you one of the few people I take issue with executing for sedition.”

“Or maybe it shows their wisdom.” Harry countered as he struggled.

“Ha! You see, Ned! You see! Must I not be insane to miss someone who speaks so insolently to me?” Robert jostled Harry like a ragdoll.

Lord Stark said nothing. Having spent so much time with each other in their youth –where if it were possible, Robert was more rambunctious – the stoic Northman was immune to the King’s antics.

“Where is that idiot squire of mine?” Robert searched the faces of the crew, all of whom had their eyes glued to their party, “You! Lan…Lan…oh fuck it, Lannister! Bring some refreshments to my quarters! And be quick about!”

The squire hopped as if a fire had been lit beneath him before scrambling below deck.

“Are you not too harsh on the boy?” Harry put his chastisement as a question.

“Bah!” Robert waved his warhammer about like a stick, “he is a squire. That is how all squires are treated.”

“Prince Oberyn never treated me as such.” Harry commented, perhaps not as off-handedly as he made it appear.

“Better for him.” Robert mumbled under his breath as he lead them all towards his private quarters, mindless to the duplicity.

A tad surprisingly, his brother’s cabin was not as grand as the one of his grandfather’s ship. It was little better than a private room aboard the vessel, with a single cot in a corner and a table at the center.

“Go on, go on, make yourself comfortable.” Robert motioned towards the bolted down chairs, slipping into one himself.

Harry divested himself of his weapons, the Valyrian steel Nightfall onto the table and his other in his lap. He sat across from Lord Stark and it was only then that Harry remembered his etiquette.

“I apologize, Lord Stark, I seem to have misplaced my manners. Goodness my mother is no longer with us or she would have tanned my hide.” Harry joked, standing and presenting his arm. He conveniently ignored Robert’s sarcastic comment of ‘oh sure, she would’ve’.

“No offense was taken.” Ned said, grasping Harry’s arm, “I too may have lost myself in similar circumstances.”

The blonde haired squire his brother commanded had returned, bustling and scuttering about like a mouse. His arms full, it was with shaky hands he placed plates and cups on the table. When Harry thought the squire would not drop anything, he grabbed the boy’s wrist. The boy looked ready to jump straight through the roof and into the crow’s nest.

“What is your name?” Harry asked.

“My…my…my…” The squire stuttered, shaking so hard Harry thought he would vibrate straight out of his skin.

“Your name boy. Gods, you are–“

“Robert!” Harry’s stare snapped towards his brother, the look as hard and sharp as his rebuke. When Robert clicked his teeth together, Harry looked back at the frightened blonde boy, took wine pitcher from his hand and did the task of filling their empty cups. “Be patient with your king. He is foulmouthed and ill-mannered–“

Robert’s cup was halfway to his lips when he slammed it down on the table with an indignant, “Hey!”

“–but there are few better warriors to learn from.” Robert quickly forgot his vexation and his face broke into a smile that touched his eyes, ”Now, again, what is your name?”

Hazy green eyes darted from Harry, to the King, to Lord Stark. Robert had opened his mouth to speak again, when the frightened little thing finally squeaked out, “Lancel Lannister!”

“Well met, Lancel,” Harry nodded his head, silently patting himself on the back for again sending Obara on her task. Snakes and mices did not mix. “I’m sure you have other tasks my brother has made you responsible for. I shall take care of things in here.”

“But…” Lancel said, eyes darting to the king.

“Do I not give you enough responsibilities?” Somehow the words from Robert’s lips sounded like a threat.

“No, Your Grace. You do. Plenty.” The young Lannister was quick to agree.

“Oh! So, I give you too much–“

“Robert…” The way Harry elongated his name was enough.

“Bah! Give thanks and be on your way, Lannister.” Robert sat back heavily, his arms thrown to the sky.

“Thank you, my lord.” Lancel bowed towards Harry, which he returned in kind before the boy quickly about-faced and was out the door.

“Do not be crossed with my words Young Hadrian, but was treating His Grace like that in front of his squire proper?” Lord Stark asked, brows furrowed as if himself was unsure of the answer.

“Bah! Forget that, Ned. We have more important matters to discuss.” Robert said, “Regale me with your victory at Harlaw, Harry.”

“Not much to say. I went, they surrendered, I got a sword.” Harry summarized unenticingly, presenting him with Nightfall.

“A fine blade,” Robert said as he unsheathed the estoc to inspect it, “there is a new blacksmith in King’s Landing. It is said he hails from Qohor and knows the secret spells used to re-forge a blade such as this. I will have a raven sent to summon him to Lannisport.”

“Lannisport?” Harry probed in surprise.

“Aye, my good-father, the Old Lion, Tywin-fucking-Lannister wishes to throw a celebration in our victory.”

“Is he not counting his chickens before they have hatched?”

“Do you suspect we will lose?”

“No.” Harry was quick and sure to answer. While technically possible, it wasn’t plausible.

“Well, do not keep me in suspense, little brother. Tell me of how you crushed the Ironborn at Harlaw.” Robert’s grin wide and eyes shining in expectation, “and do not think of changing the subject again.”

This was the moment he had been dreading. Not that he regretted his decision. He would have done it again, if the circumstances had been the same. However, his brother…well…it didn’t matter. Harry had made his bed.

“I parleyed with Lord Harlaw. He graciously surrendered to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.” Harry powered through.

Robert and Ned looked from Harry, to each other, and back again. They seemed unable to comprehend. Though his brother seemed much more confused of the two.

“That’s it?”

“The gist of it.” Harry nodded.

“And…” Ned started unsure as a newly born foal, “he gave you a Valyrian steel sword for that?”

“Oh…no…”

“Out with it man. You didn’t’ steal it did you?” The king whispered as if the walls of his ship had ears.

“What! No!” came Harry’s sharp reply. If they did have ears, they were deaf now.

“I was just asking. I didn’t think you did,” Robert swore, “but you know…you’re being awfully cagey about the topic.”

“It isn’t that interesting.”

“Well, then tell us.” His brother insisted.

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Then you could be finished with your tale already rather than swaying left and right of the subject like a dancer.”

“The man who owned it before me, Ser Harrass, was part of his uncle’s parley retinue. He offered me insult and instead of cutting his head off, Lord Harlaw offered me this sword to keep it where it was.” Harry sighed, slightly ashamed at his actions. Perhaps not at his actions, but that they had been necessary. He wasn’t sure.

“And…then he gave you his surrender?” Lord Stark asked, still unsure of how all the pieces came together.

“I told him that if he didn’t surrender,” Harry turned to look at his brother’s friend, “I would kill them all.”

A silence hung about them. Lord Stark baulked as if Harry had grown horns. He knew the man could see the truth in him and was…both surprised and revolted. His brother was of a different mind, given that he roared with laughter.

“A bluff? You got Harlaw to surrender with a bluff?” Robert huffed and heaved to take in air.

A different man would’ve protested, but Harry let it go. He allowed his face to melt into a small smile. No need to disenchant his brother’s impression of him. If Robert believed him unable to commit such deeds, then Harry was grateful. It was when people were too ready to believe him capable, would he give time for insult and worry.

“Ah, Harry…you kill me.” Robert laughingly sighed, wiping a tear from his eye.

“You need humor me. I know you are disappointed?”

“No…no…not disappointed.” His conviction was so weak, Harry could not even pretend to believe him and Robert knew so. “Perhaps a tad. You did as I asked and quelled the rebellion at Harlaw, regardless of your methods none can call you a failure. But, I had hoped for honors for you.”

“What honor is there in winning a slaughter?” Harry brought up.

“True enough I suppose.” Robert nodded, “Besides there will be honors here and during the tourney at Lannisport. My good friend Lord Stark here has pointed out that the competition would not be fair were I to participate.”

“That is very wise.” Harry nodded sagely.

“So…” Robert poised, expecting an answer.

“So…” Harry repeated.

“So, someone will have to fight for the pride of House Baratheon.” Robert finished.

“Ah, yes…about that…” Harry trailed. He could already see the events before they unfolded.

Obara and he in a town full of Lannisters. It need only be one blonde haired, green eyed mouth to say something about the greatness of the Lannister name or a stray insult or ill-timed jape…just about anything really and either he and Obara were going to end up dead eight-hundred leagues away from home or the Lannisters were going to chase them six-hundred leagues to the Prince’s Pass.

They would try to kill her because she would try to kill them. And they would have to kill him, because he would kill them. And there went the toppling of the Seven Kingdoms…

Perhaps a bit too dramatic, but not so far out of the realm of reality.

“I am much too small to partake in the joust.” was his excuse.

“The melee then. That was always your favorite event.” Robert offset.

“I didn’t bring any training equipment.” Harry continued to list pretexts.

“There are fine smiths of every kind in Lannisport. If not we will task it to that Qorhoric smith from King’s Landing.”

“I don’t think–“

“Good gods man!” Robert finally exploded. “What will it take for you to come and join in the celebration?”

“Robert, there isn’t–“

“No, no, everyone has a price. I never thought I’d have to negotiate spending time with my brother but it seems we are at that point.” Robert groused.

Harry smiled, even if he felt sorry for his brother. If Obara were not with him, then he may have contemplated attending. Even if it did puzzle him how men could play at war just after killing and dying in one. He supposed they had little else to do for entertainment and rejoicing.

As it was, Obara was with him. And he would not throw a snake into a lion’s den. Because…well, there was no winner to that situation.

That being said…thinking of Obara, a thought occurred to Harry.

“What was it?” Robert was quick to ask.

“Huh?”

“That…whatever that was that crossed your mind. What was it? Oh…I knew you had some sin to you.” Robert rubbed his hands together like the devil on Harry’s shoulder. All that was missing was the maniacal laughter. “Here I was thinking people would start to call you Baelor Baratheon. Name your price man.”

“Well…”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Obara clutched at her spear like a lifeline as the bodies started to pile in. Twelve Stormlords accompanied by a knight or two, to better make themselves feel important she assumed, with a baker’s dozen of hedge knights that had paid for passage, hoping that their martial skill would be noticed upon the battlefield. A great many men armed and armored who bore Harry a grudge. A great many men she was to give words to and bear their questions, and more importantly, their condescending sneers and jeers. 

For the first time in a long time, she resented Harry.

She was no fucking statesman. Obara barely interacted with people above her station. Her social circle was as far as her cousins, sisters, men-at-arms, and the common citizen.

Aside from basic reading, writing, and arithmetic, her father had allowed her a bastard’s life. There was no great expectation of her other than to enjoy living. Such was her blissful blessing. She didn’t have to waste her time on useless things like proper etiquette for this kingdom or that one.

Harry’s disruptive nature had fucked that up. Because there she stood aboard some lord of something or another’s poop-deck about to deliver an ultimatum, that if there was a single man not already upset with Harry, then they were about to be. Obara surely was.

But, she would still do her duty.

“Attention to orders!” She barked while slamming the butt of her spear so cruelly, the metal cap dented the deck.

The highborn and knighted looked positively affront at being addressed in such a way. One would think that with how long she had been around them, they would be used to her brash nature. Apparently not.

“You? Our  _commander_ ,” the word came out like acid, “sends his bastard servant to order us.”

She decidedly did not like the way he said any of his words. Commander, bastard, or servant. Obara did not readily know the man’s House, but she seared it into her mind that he wore a crescent moon on a black sky over green grass. She would look for him on the battlefield…and if he did not lay on his back staring blankly at the sky, she would ensure he knew just what she thought of him after.

“Are you stupid or deaf?” She shot back at him. “Attention to orders means open your ears, not your fucking mouth!”

“I will heed no words from a woman, let alone a Dornish one.” Another man spoke, this one with black and white swans.

“Then, I will be the first to laugh when your head rolls.” She announced to their shocking gasps.

“What do you mean woman? And speak plain!”

Oh, now they were interested.

“Hence, the attention to orders, you fucking moron.” She grumbled to herself.

They were baying at her to explain. Such was the character of the highborn. They had no care to lives lost or broken until theirs was on the line. Perhaps that was just mankind in general, with only a select few able to see the forests for its numerous trees rather than forest or trees.

“These are the standing orders of Lord Hadrian Baratheon.” Obara hated using that title. However, it was technically the truest and, in their current circumstance, the one that held the most weight.

“Any man of the Stormlands found to be engaging in brigandry, pillaging, or any other such crimes as defined by the laws of the Stormlands, shall be punished in accordance with those laws.” She parroted Harry’s orders word for word.

Their baying turned from want of explanation to want of blood. Or, it very well could have been with the anger in their eyes and bearing of their teeth. It could have been if she could hear a coherent word out of any of them.

“Furthermore, all disabled or disarmed enemy combatants and noncombatants captured by any Stormlander will be brought to a designated location to be determined later for medical treatment in accordance with severity of wounds and availability of medicine. Any man caught harming a patient within this location or aid the wounded after the battle will be subject to flogging or death.”

Honestly, she could understand their dislike of the first command. Every warrior went to war expecting riches and glory. Many did for honor as well, but given the choice between the three most would prioritize riches. However, she didn’t get the outrage at the second.

“This is the price of admittance into battle.” Obara finished. Yet, she did not feel relieved. If anything, the way the men looked at her, had her gripping the shaft of her spear so tightly it was a miracle the wood did not splitner.

“And if we do not wish to pay, he would call our absence treason.” Lord Errol, the big-mouth of Haystack Hall, who gave Harry so much trouble during their final day at Harlaw, spat his vehemence. She should have expected it really.

“No,” Obara drilled her glare at the older man, “the King bade you sail to Pyke. You are at Pyke. Your commander gives you a choice. Abide your vows as knights and as lords of the realm, come to terms with his orders, or do not muster when the time comes.”

“Are we to be the only ones who do not profit from this?” Obara didn’t even bother to look at who spoke anymore. They were starting to piss her off with all their questions. It was a command, they were soldiers, their job was to follow that command. Even with her elementary education she could grasp that.

“He is in command of the Stormlands, not the Westerlands, not the Riverlands, not the Crownlands. The fucking Stormlands. Would any of you allow another lord to come into your castle and tell you how to rule it?” Obara spit, looking wildly for any man to rise to her challenge.

Not a soul had a word to say.

For what could they say?

Obara gave them a final thought, something that Harry had told her, but not instructed her to say. She wondered if he knew she would need it.

“He thinks you’ll show,” She said. Seeing confusion in their eyes, she carried on, “Harry, that it.”

Ah, what did she care if they did not like her addressing him so informally. Her opinion of them was so low, she doubted that even with all the bad blood between the lands of the Marches, there was nary a Dornishman who could think lesser.

“He’s naïve like that. He thinks you are really knights, just like in the stories. That you’ll stand beside him to do what is good and just, that your souls are as clean as your armor.” She sniggered to herself at how stupid and how like Harry that was.

Most did not seem to care for her words. She could hardly blame them. What were her words worth? Nothing really.

But, some, just a handful of the truly old and the barely old enough, there was a smidgeon, a glimmer of something that told her all that there may be reason for Harry’s faith.

One side remembered the stories they grew up with and at least part of the reason they wanted to be knights at all. The other remembered days past. Days that perhaps as children they saw a few true and worthy of the title.

And she wanted to cut them down. Cut them down so hopefully…they would rise up. Not on her shoulders, but legs of their very own.

Shit, she had been around Harry much too long.

“Me?” She sneered. “I think you’re all just greedy old lords and summer knights.”

Sure enough, all were pissed at her then. But none more so than those whose hope she just dashed.

“The walls will come down soon. I will sound the horn to muster upon the beach. Not that I expect any of you. I know my condemnations to be about you true.” Obara said, moving towards the gangplank. But just before the precipice, just before crossing over, she spoke the last words she may perhaps ever speak to them, “let us see if any of you have the gumption to prove _his_ faith truer.”

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

He sat alone, eyes closed and head pressed against the pommel of his sword in the darkness of his cabin.

Harry had never given much thought to gods. Even back then, when he had first witnessed magic and mythical creatures and ghosts, it had never crossed his mind that there may be something greater than himself. At least not in the sense of a manifestation of deities.

Strange it seemed to him now. To have been witness to all the things he had and not believed in something greater. He had been proven wrong.

And so, on the very eve of the battle before him, Harry prayed. He did not pray for victory, but guidance. There was a purpose to his being in the world and he hoped his course was not only righteous, but that it was right.

It would not have been the first time in this new world he had prayed. It would not have been the first time his prayers were answer. Consequently, it also would not have been the first time she failed to show.

It would be the former that time, as the soothing rocking of the ship turned languid and an unearthly light filled the space in front of him.

Harry did not believe she thought herself a goddess, but if there were, he imagined they moved and looked as she did; effortlessly graceful and too perfect to see in her entirety.

The light became her aura, her natural power unable to be completely restrained. Her robes were whiter than freshly fallen snow, her skin porcelain, and hair all the shades of gold and platinum. In her left hand she carried a sheathed thin sword of such untainted metal and silver, it glowed like moonlight.

That was as much of her as he could see in her entirety. Harry found it strangely fitting that the more he tried to see the whole picture, the hazier she became. But if he focused, he could see the pale pink of her lips, the porcelain skin of her cheeks, and eyes so blue, the most perfect summer sky would shy away.

“You heard me.” He said, relieved that she would answer his call.

“I always hear. I do not always answer, but I always hear.” The corner of her eyes crinkled in amusement. She sat beside him, her posture a mirror of his own. “Ask your question.”

“Is this the right course?” He asked to her soft laughter.

“That’s not it,” silver tendrils swayed gently at the shake of her head, “you would not be here if you did not believe it the proper course.”

“Maybe it’s my fate.” He guffawed.

“You already know your fate here. I have not hidden it from you.” She stated nonchalantly.

“But is this path the right one to that?” Harry pressed.

“It is just one of many roads to the same destination.” Dear Merlin she was infuriatingly vague. “But it’s still not what’s bothering you.”

“Yes, it is.” He insisted.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Then what is bothering me?” He gave up.

Instead of answering, she lifted a hand and waved it about slowly, humming a musical tune all the while. It took no time at all for Harry to know what she was hinting at. And, in truth, it was a thought that bothered him, a thought he had thought before. Even if he never acknowledged it.

“Why didn’t you give me my wand?” He finally asked.

“There we go.” She nodded, pleased that he had been truthful. “Continue.”

“I could end this war with a wave of my wand.”

“A bit too poetic don’t you think?” Her laughter chimed.

“A few dozen waves of my wand.” He rolled his eyes.

“You probably could.” She agreed.

“I could make this world so much better, help so many people, right so many wrongs.” Harry built up steam.

Just common charms alone would make things so much easier at the clinic, so many more lives could be saved. A demonstration of fiendfyre could have Balon begging for peace. And, when the time came for Harry to meet his destiny in this world, he and his wand could lay waste to those who would destroy mankind.

“Perhaps.” She nodded.

“Then why?” It sounded like an accusation. Even to him. But she did nothing to give notice to it.

“You already know the answer to that, to all of the questions that poke at you like little devils.” Her voice even softer.

There was a time he would have lashed out at her. A time when he had been youthful and so quick to think someone toying with him, rather than allowing him to work the problem so he may understand the solution. But he knew better now. It did nothing for her to toy with him and he had all the benefit if he understood.

It may have been her presence or the lack of rush for time, but it took him no time at all to answer his own question.

“Balance.” Harry realized. He was reminded of Snape’s words his first year. With a wave of his wand Harry could change the very fabric of reality, become a god among men – even more than some considered him – but where would it end? Where would the people be when he was no longer able to wave his wand and end their ills with a single phrase.

His thoughts must have plainly played across his face, because Harry could see they were known to her.

“I told you, you knew.” She patted his hand with a smile.

“How did you know I would know?” He could not help but ask. It was at these times that he still felt young and not in a good way.

“Because I chose wisely in you.” Apparently satisfied, she started to fade back into the light without so much as a by your leave. Before she was gone, her parting words rang within him.

“Remember that, Harry. _I_ chose wisely in _you_.”

OoOoOoOoO

It was Ned’s first time on the offensive end of a siege. Standing out at sea, hearing the twain of catapults, and the thunder of boulders as they smashed against walls as strong and old as Winterfell, it was no trouble at all for him to admit, he prayed to never be on the opposite end.

For almost a full day, from noon sun to noon sun, the royal fleet had besieged Pyke. The old castle was worse for wear, looking as if only held up by the hopes and prayers of the people inside. It seemed as if the walls were due to come crumbling down at a stiff enough gust.

Yet, they did not.

There were massive gaps and holes, cracks the size of kraken tentacles, and still the walls held. Which was fine for Ned. The more time passed, the more time Balon had to think about surrendering peacefully. The Old Squid may be lucky and catch Robert in a fine mood, where the King would offer The Black in place of beheading. The Night’s Watch could always use the men.

A war horn drew his eyes to the beach and though he wished it different, there was no mistaking what he saw. There was only one person Ned knew of at Pyke that was dressed in Dornish armor, but shining upon the beach were two, both glowing like the sun in copper and gold. The taller one in copper had their spear stabbed into the harsh, gritty sand, a hand around a shield and a horn that Ned assumed gave the call.

“Is it time?” His friend’s voice came from behind, the Lannister squire not trailing far off.

“Not that I can see, but…” Ned said before jutting his chin towards the beach where the King’s brother stood waiting.

“There’s the Baratheon blood coming through.” Robert boasted. “Eager for glory.”

Ned disagreed. He had spent time with Young Hadrian, only a short time true, but he didn’t think the young man cut from the same cloth as Robert. Willing? Yes. Dangerous? More than any boy of three-and-ten had a right to be. But he did not think Hadrian had want of glory.

Regardless of his beliefs, Ned held his tongue. Robert had made it plenty known what he thought of Ned’s opinions in regards to the man’s family. He did not wish his friend’s mind clouded by anger. But, Ned not need say a word, for Robert spoke…and Ned’s restraint was all for naught.

“Why do they not move from their ships?” Robert’s voice rumbled with a quiet fury, which only unnerved Ned even more. He had never thought he would have preferred Robert to rant and rave like a lunatic, but his simmer was so much worse.

There were a few small boats loaded with knights in full plate that made the trek from the Stormland ships to shore. They trickled out, a dozen or so on each, some bearing standard and others unadorned. But a majority of the Stormland army – lords, knights, and commoners – stood at the bows looking on without even the barest of armor.

“They look like they aren’t going to join the battle, Your Grace.” The Lancel boy said.

“I can fucking see that you imbecile! I am questioning why!” Robert exploded, his narrow eyes darting from the Stormland ships to his brother on the beach. His chest heaved and he shook with such rage, Ned grew worried for his squire, who was the most convenient target for his rage.

Whatever Robert was going to say was put on hold. Ned stared out on to the beach, the reflection of the sun off his armor making Hadrian look so hazy. He was speaking to his men, a gathering of almost a hundred and a half fully armored knights. The Houses of Estermont, Selmy, Caron, and Penrose stood with him, the rest – a large majority – hedge knights.

Hadrian spoke to them and they did not react as Ned knew men to react just before entering the fray. They weren’t rowdy, yelling their voices hoarse to chase away fear. It was difficult to see their body language through armor, but Ned would have sworn to all that they were…they stood like he had seen Knights of the Vale stand during sept mass. Reverently serene.

At the end of the exchange, Harry and the copper one next to him turned. The copper one continued to blow the war horn. By the third, as if by magic, the wall that had been held up by hopes and dreams started to crumble like a sandcastle amidst hail. Huge chunks fell away at each boulder struck, creating a steep ramp into the castle proper.

When all was settled, all that stood in their way was the gaggle of bodies that filled that gap. A swarm that slowly inched out of their no longer safe haven and cried the most desperate war cry, their weapons and shields waving in the air.

“Gather the men.” Robert’s voice was soft in shock. It lasted a heartbeat before Robert turned wildly and shoved his squire so hard the boy fell and bounced off the deck. “Gather the men to arms! Go! Get upon the beach!”

Ned was only a step behind Robert, pitying both the men unfortunate to not have moved fast enough out of the way and Robert himself. If Ned were a different man, he would have reminded Robert of the words they had exchanged not so long ago. But, Ned did not think it necessary. His friend was suffering his nightmare.

Most of all, Ned prayed for Hadrian. He prayed the young man lasted long enough for them to save him.

“And sear the sigils of those fucking cowards into your mind boy! I will deal with them when the day is through!”

OoOoOoOoO

Garen looked upon the beach, the long trek of loose sand that he would have to transverse just to make it to the wall, and his imagination could fill in the blanks of what lay beyond that. All that work for…well like the Dornish girl said, glory and honor.

To a hedge knight, the ultimate goal was to find a wealthy lord who would give him a lofty position of guarding a second or third child, maybe a dowager lady. A position of prestige that was still easy. Heirs were too much work, too much responsibility for the benefit.

But to get anywhere, a knight had to have a sterling reputation. The only way to get that sort of reputation was through mud and blood.

That was why he stood with only a hundred others on the sands, ready to storm a castle and put their lives on the line on the order of some boy who did not even reach Garen's chin. 

Well, not just any boy as every man knew, but the King's favorite sibling. Another reason that was as good as any other. If Garen were lucky, the boy would notice him. Maybe Garen would save the young man’s life and be taken into his service or be rewarded by the king.

A slim chance of it happening, but far better than abstaining where he would have no honors, no claim to glory. The lords and knights who stayed behind had lands and such to live for. Garen did not.

“Well met, Lord Hadrian.” A lord bearing a tabard of black nightingales on a yellow field greeted the golden child.

“Lord Caron,” The young lord nodded his head, before addressing the other lords, “Lords Selmy, Penrose, Cousin Dennas. I’m pleased you all came.”

“How could I resist?” Lord Caron asked. “The words of my House are ‘No Song so Sweet’ and there will be no sweeter song than those bards will sing about us, we hundred few, on this day.”

“Indeed,” Lord Penrose stepped forward, “our deeds here will be set down for time immemorial.”

“Grandfather would string me up by my balls and hang me from the battlements should I shame the Estermont name with cowardice.” Dennas shrugged with a nonchalant smirk.

The young lord turned and looked to the last man; a grizzly, sour looking…fellow. His sigil should have been a lemon instead of the three stocks of wheat.

Seeing their expectant faces, the old man let loose his gravelly voice, that from a less rough visage may have been mistaken for sulking. “I’ll let no fucking Dornishman call me and my House summer knights.”

The Dornishman in question just shrugged blithely when her liege gave her a reproachful look.

“What’s the battle strategy?” Lord Selmy was the first to ask. Garen found himself leaning in, as probably the others around him did.

Hadrian jerked his head towards the crumbling wall behind him and like it was the simplest, most common sense but brilliant strategy in all the world said, “We’re going through there.”

“That’s it?” there was no shortage of disbelief at the comically modest strategy.

“Well, it’s going to come down first. We’re going to kill people. And _then_ we’re going through there.” The young lord stared at them as if unsure what else they expected.

Garen too wondered what other action could be taken. Was there another way to take a castle other than to charge forward? It wasn't like they could sneak in having given away their presence days ago. Moreover, he was a knight. Poor and without patronage, but a knight nonetheless.

A knight did not hide within a shield-wall as a peasant would. While a knight should be humble in victory, he was not shy or meek when time came to achieve it. A knight shined his armor so that all would notice him and witness as he bravely charged headlong into the fray on top his noble steed.

As Garen did not have his horse, his own two feet would suffice.

“I like it.” His Sworn Shield said. “Simple.”

“Aye,” The grizzled Selmy agreed, “less things for the Dornish to fuck up.”

“There’s only two of us old man.” The copper lady pointed out.

The old landed knight swiveled his stink eye from the woman to the young man and back again before conceding, “I’ll give you one and a half.”

“I’m so glad everyone is getting along.” Hadrian chuckled. “but let us finish with the ripostes before delving into repartees.”

“Just so, my lord. There will be plenty time to bandy words when we feast in Balon’s halls!” Lord Penrose said before stuttering a moment. “I mean assuming…”

“Men do have to eat, my lord.” The golden lord nodded with a soft chuckle, draining the small moment of tension from them all.

“You should say something to the men.”

“Oh?” Hadrian turned to his companion. “Did I not send you? Are they not here as proof that you have spoken well?”

“Do not let the last thing these poor bastards hear be my coarse fucking tongue. Even I think that would be unusually cruel.” The Dornish said.

“It makes my balls itch to say so, but I agree with her.” Lord Selmy interjected, only to receive a very crude, un-ladylike gesture. Not that the Dornishman was very feminine to begin with.

The young lord hm’ed to himself, stepping out of their shadows and into the eyes of all. He was of no great stature and Garen did not expect much from someone so inexperienced, but should the worse happen, he had to admit that Hadrian of House Baratheon would die finely dressed.

“I know what you all must think of me and it says much about your character that you stand here anyway. So, for what it's worth I hope you find some solace in the fact that if no one else and never again, that in this moment I consider you good and true knights.” Strange as it sounded, that did liven his heart a little. That for once, he was acknowledged and held in a lord’s highest esteem. “I am not good with words, so pardon my less than rousing speech. And I have little, so I cannot bring any of you into my employ or bequeath unto you great lands or riches. But what I do have, I freely give to you.”

If he did not see it with his own eyes, if he had even been ten paces farther, Garen would not have believed what he saw. It was little more than a haze, the warm and golden aura that exuded from him, hardly seen but still felt. Before he could give into the fear that reared its head, it was cast away like a feather in the breeze as he was washed over.

“Be at peace, good knights.” The lord said, as the glow filled Garen from the inside out. And he was not afraid. So many feelings and emotions, but fear was so far out of his mind, it may as well not have existed. “And know, I am with you.”

Know Garen did. He felt sincerity and compassion he had long believed men incapable of feeling. Not because men were destined to be cruel, but because that was what their world turned most men into. But just like a breath of fresh air, he felt relief to finally know different.

But that was not all. As magic twisted around him, bathed him, the young lord’s want was granted; Garen was given what he needed to be at peace, what all men need to be at peace.

Knowledge.

Though not knowing something from some book, but meaning. Honest to the gods meaning Or, at least, possible meaning. In his mind’s eye, visions assailed him like a horde until he was overwhelmed by moments past, present, and future. Too many to focus on. However, two did cleave unto him.

In one he was old and fat, living his dream of a sworn knight. He had a squire of his own, was dressed in finery he had never dreamt of owning, his belly was full of wine and food, and he even had a comely enough wife who had sired him children. It was a good and decent life. Yet, for as joyous as it should be to look upon, Garen could not help but feel…nothing. Empty.

In another vision, his life was a tragic fucking misery to behold. He was little better than a beast of burden, that burden being an oath that slowly robbed him of his singular will and desire. He stood among others on a barren wasteland, just one of many. Even knowing he was one, Garen could not recognize which of them was him. He and they were just spokes attached to the hub of a wheel. To make matters worse, across from them encroached a vast army of shadows that brought even more cold and assured death.

He should have been despondent, praying for salvation from the hell he found himself in. Yet, he only prayed for courage so that he might not disgrace himself or his companions. The cold should have bit deep into his marrow like a hound from hell, but his honor wrapped around him like a cloak and gave him the fortitude of a giant. He should have been afraid at what awaited him, but he felt only satisfaction in knowing that should he meet the Stranger, he did so in worthwhile company; a notion that had never even danced across his thoughts before. For all his wanting to feel fear, he only saw glory.

Splendor and sanctity through service and sacrifice.

The warhorn drew him back and even more pressing to Garen than the falling rocks of Pyke was assurance that his experience was not some moment of madness. He looked to the men around him, wondering that if any of them there had seen what he had. And if there were, then which of them were those that stood with him amidst that dark winter?

When the lord’s queer sword was raised into the air, every one of Garen’s muscles tense. He looked upon that sword like a jousting flag, just waiting for it to drop so that he could thunder down the tilt, only one thing in mind.

Victory.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Harry held his sword in the air and watched his enemy. They were as he thought; the old, young, and women. They were lightly armored, some of them the ill-fitted of armor that was stolen or not truly theirs. A ragtag group of defenders, of desperate people. However, they were many and even when faced against the other six kingdoms they looked fearlessly.

Even still, he thought of offering them quarter. Mercy for at least the sick, the too old, too young, and to those who would lay down their weapons. He wanted to give them mercy now while men still be capable of giving it. Because when the others arrived, there would be little to nothing Harry could do.

When they screamed defiance and threatened him with their weapons, that small hoped was ruined.

Seeing no other recourse he lifted his sword into the air and signaled his soldiers to be ready.

“Why are we waiting?” Obara asked eagerly from beside him. She was like her moniker, coiled at the ready to strike.

“We wait for them to move against us. Draw them out so we can fight them on even ground.” Harry instructed, not only to Obara, but those behind him. The manmade passage was not narrow, but would still favor the defenders. However, on the open field an armored knight was worth five of the Ironborn reserves, who only because of their heritage were slightly better than common levy.

“Our smaller numbers would be better suited for the breach.” Lord Caron said.

“Normally,” he acknowledged, “but reinforcements will not be far behind. If we hold the gap, they will be held behind us.”

There was a reason he setup early. As sad as it may have been, Harry knew that only a handful of men would show. The wall coming down had been a gamble, but if it did come down he wanted the Ironborn to have reason to sally out. If the Ironborn held at the breach, the day would be long and with their advantage they could kill many men before they were forced to retreat and even longer until they surrendered.

“Why in the hells would they leave the pass?” Ser Selmy gruffly questioned. “A disciplined line and archers at the ramparts, they could hold an army for a time…or at least make it a pyrrhic victory.”

“They could,” Harry agreed again, “but they won’t.”

It would be smart for the Ironborn to do, but he was betting on them giving into their nature. They were an unbending people who prided themselves on their fierceness in battle. Though the Ironborn were nearly all illiterate, they were not dumb. They knew they were beaten, which ironically would only make them want to fight more, to die in glorious battle rather than suffer the indignity of manacles and mercy.

“How do you–“ Obara stopped when another scream ripped from the Ironborn, just before – like a hole in a dam – they spilled forward, their speed and number snowballing. She was quick to glare at him, “shut up.”

Harry gave them a few seconds head start, just enough time for their numbers to thin out. The fast and eager to separate themselves from the old, intelligent, or cowardly. Then, with a lowering of his sword, he and his men started forward.

They were first met with a hail of arrows from the ramparts, just as Ser Selmy predicted. Nothing more than an attempt to stall or discourage them. From so far away their war-arrows would just rebound off heavy-plate and even have trouble with Harry and Obara’s lighter scale.

As the arrows fell, Obara used her longer strides to step in front of him, her shield up and at the ready. Still, a handful pinged off his helm, a few barely knitted through the well-made rings of his maille, and some even touched his silk robes.

Shafts of wood sticking from his scale. A few nicks and cut. More annoying than it was painful. But that annoying pain gave way to anger and anger into fuel.

The sand crunch beneath him at his trot. Nary a man of his screamed or yelled, only moved forward with a cheerless resolve. As they drew closer they moved quicker, the jostling of armor louder. Closer and faster their steps until Harry burst into a sprint beyond his Shield. Although smaller he was quicker and the first to meet the Ironborn.

He was an elderly man, gray hair pointing out from beneath his half-helm, dressed in a hauberk and wielding an axe and shield. The most murderous bellow came from him as he rose his axe high in the air, prepared to take Harry’s head off in a single blow. His timing was impeccable, but he made a mistake in setting his feet to balance himself for the rebound.

Harry did not falter. He did not stop to block or parry the cut. Hence, the older man’s mistake.

Harry just ran right by, timing his large arching slice with his steps. The big chopper of a sword in his hands scored cleanly through the man’s knee like a butcher’s knife through a chicken. The fountain of blood to splash against his boot was as much mind as Harry paid the man who surely fell to his death. Through blood loss or the knights behind, it mattered little as Harry met his second.

He did not give the shieldmaiden a chance to move meaningfully against him. Harry fainted left and when her shield moved to intercept him, he danced right. His hand latched to her shield and though she was assuredly stronger than his body of three-and-ten and taller too, he had moved with enough surprising speed to force it an inch or two lower than she willed it. That was all it took for Harry to fully raise his arm and slide the chisel-like point of his sword over the shield and into her neck, his stride never broken.

The shield took most of the arterial spray, but some showered down upon his hands, helm, and face as she fell. A precarious consequence. Blinded by the stinging liquid, he did not see the falling sword he ran towards.

A metal blade battered against his crown, that if it were not for the helm upon his head he could be called among the ghosts ‘Harry Half-Face’. His brain jarred and jostled, and for a moment it could not decide if he should lay down or keep fighting.

It was a reverberating sort of pain, the kind that made him stumble and his eyes refuse to open, and even when he managed it his vision burned from the red liquid and was so distorted it just made him want to vomit. All he caught when he forced his eyelids apart was a retreating glimmer, no doubt of steel rearing for a killing blow.

Harry moved quickly, closing the distance intimately. The suddenness caused his throat to burn from withholding the vomit that threatened to spew forth. Inside his opponent’s guard,  his weapon between his opponent’s legs, Harry pushed until he felt something solid. Then, with all of his strength he yanked, letting the blade do most of the work.

A howl of bloody fucking murder rent the air, ringing in his ears. It enflamed his headache something fierce and drew from him a cruel anger. Even barely able to stand, Harry lifted his sword and stabbed it into his adversary’s neck. Like some twisted and macabre caricature of Arthur and Excalibur, Harry leaned heavily on his newly made platform like a crutch.

Indeed, his spirit was willing, but his body was still young and easy to weaken. It would have disobeyed him and fallen to slumber were it not for another glint. A flicker of copper from the corner of his eye had him instructing his body to stop its fucking whinging.

It could sleep when he was dead.

Looking up, it was as he feared. Obara was on her back, shield up as she batted away at crushing swings for a great-axe, her spear arm trapped under the large Ironborn’s foot.

Harry’s first thought was, what the bloody fuck was a warrior so capable doing at Pyke instead of amongst the wreckage of the Iron Fleet. The second was that he had been so ready and eager to enter the fray ahead of Obara, to shield her from harm, that he had allowed her to walk into it.

The story of his life.

Well, she would not die that day. This time would be different. He may barely be able to stand and his brain was all but mush between his ears, but he was resolute enough to know that.

His body protested every jarring step, but Harry stumbled upright. As the great-axe rose again, he wished his feet would cooperate with him, would do what they had done so easily before. However, they did not and Harry was not waiting for them to put away their rebellious attitude.

He heaved his sword over and behind him. Hoping with all hope, praying for once in his life for something as selfish as success, Harry rocked forward and tried to watch as his sword spun like a wheel of death towards the large Ironborn. It was not to be so as he barely caught himself on the way down.

He searched blindly, frantically around him before his fingers clutched at an abandoned hatchet before he attempted to stand, looking like a newly born babe. Harry looked up to see the Ironborn standing over him, having abandoned Obara a few feet away to deal with him. He hefted his giant axe in his hands like it was a twig. Harry blinked, not giving up his fight to bring the world to order. Then, the man reared back and roared.

Obara, wounded and hurting as she was, had crawled a length and jammed her spear into the back of the man’s thigh. She pushed even harder, empowered by causing the man pain, a satisfied and bloodthirsty grin across her lips.  

Harry took advantage of the distraction, grabbing unto the man’s axe and used it to clamber back to his feet. With the momentum, he jerked his knee up with as much force as his body could muster into the Ironborn’s balls. They reversed positions, with the man dropping to his knees, his scream now silent and eyes bugging out of his skull.

It wasn’t elegant, but Harry did not trust his coordination. He hoisted his arm and brought the back of the hatchet across the Ironborn’s helm. Over and over, he round about that lump of steel by its haft of wood left to right and right to left like some deranged gong-ringer. He kept bashing until nothing more than a pulp of skull and mush remained.

“Harry!” He looked up at Obara, whom had called him, and saw her wide eyed. Turning to see what she saw, he barely caught the spear that struck at him like lighting, fast and hard.

The spear came quick, yet slow. Harry could see that wicked point close with his face. Having fought masters of the spear, he was well acquitted with defense against them. However, he had not the time or energy for anything as fancy as Oberyn probably would have done. Harry just grabbed the wooden haft and redirected the strike somewhere less vulnerable where he could maintain control of the weapon.

He hadn’t meant for it to still go crashing into his chest to drive his wind from him. It hit so hard the scale it impacted actually bent and he bit the back of his tongue, the taste of iron renewed. If he hadn’t been pissed before, the woman to strike at him had surely given him enough cause.

Latching on to the thing for dear life, he swung hard with the hatchet in his hand. He knew he could not out distance her. Instead, he endeavored to take that advantage away.

The steel of his axe bit into the shaft of her spear, splitting off a chunk. She caught wind of his strategy and attempted to wretch her weapon back, but Harry would have none of it. He pulled the spear closer into his armor, settled it into the dent it had made, and swung his hand-axe until her spear was little better than firewood.

He took the point that was given to him, flipped it into a makeshift sword. When she came charging in like a battering ram he shouldered the charge, his teeth rattling and feet sinking against the shifting sands. She still tried to stab at him with her splinter, but she may as well have punched against his armor for all the good it did.

Using the axe in hand, Harry pulled on the shield’s lip. He gazed over his created opening, not truly seeing or even giving room for contemplation at the young feminine face that stared up at him with fury, but also resignation. He just reared his arm back and drove the shortened spear through her eye, setting the woman’s face in eternal woe.

That time Harry was quick enough to tilt his head away from the oncoming gush. Not as forthcoming with the steel used as a plug. Her shield fell from lifeless grip, Harry quick to snatch it up. In hindsight, he really should have brought his own. It would have saved him from looking like a pin-cushion…and his possible concussion.

Harry chanced a moment for a deep and much needed breath, and to look upon where he last saw Obara. Her shield lay with the dirt as she favored her left arm gingerly. She had to use her spear as a crutch to so much as kneel, but she was alive.

He made his way only a few steps towards her when Obara raised her spear in guard, her injuries only allowing her to couch the thing. Three Ironborn stepped toward them like scavengers. A hundred other knights upon the field and the three loomed over he and his like vultures. He should have known that after so many years the infamous Potter luck would rear its head.

They were young and bore close resemblance to each other. Family, brothers Harry would have guessed. Their armor looked as if they had stolen one complete set and divvied it amongst each other. A pauldrons and cuirass for one, maille and gauntlets for the other, and a shield and helm for the smallest. Inch by inch they closed in, eyes shifting from he, to Obara, to the shoreline. And a throwaway look over his shoulder told Harry all he needed to know.

Hundreds of men lined the coastline, with even hundreds more splashing into the shallow waters. Shields and spears of levy moved and formed, coming together like a slowly crawling porcupine.

The armies of the King were finally upon the shore, knights and lords in their shining armor waving about their swords as they commanded their troops into battle-lines.

His brother and Lord Stark were easy to see as they charged forward and even easier to hear as Robert screamed his fury for all to know, waving his great war-hammer like a banner. There was reason for the Ironborn before him to be afraid. And the way Robert repeatedly screamed Harry’s name, there may be reason for him to be worried as well.

“I will not dishonor you by asking your surrender.” Harry told the three young men before shouldering the shield in his hand and readying his hatchet. “but if you don’t, I swear these will be your last moments.”

“All the more reason for them to come.” Obara stood, a grimace for her every move, but she stood and held her spear in her hands. “I have only killed two of their kind. None will sing stories of a warrior who only killed two…three maybe, but not two.”

Harry doubted very much that Obara would be able to fight well or at all, but the Ironborn didn’t seem to know that. Seeing two of them for their three and an army of even more trekking towards Pyke proved enough for the youngest of the three, as the boy with shield and helm threw his spear to the ground and fell to his knees in surrender.

Before he could feel relief in not having to kill someone a good chance younger than his body was, the boy’s brother in pauldrons and maille called him a slur and shoved an axe into his throat.

“No!” Harry shouted. Forgetting his own ills and pains, he shot forward like an arrow.

The eldest’s sword came down and he parried with his shield. Unused to the axe Harry thrusted. It was straight and true, landing square between the helm’s opening, but only succeeded in knocking out a few teeth.

He raised his shield again, blocking an overhead blow from the kinslayer. His shoulder ached and the wooden planks came to bump against his helm, but he stopped it and returned a swing of his own.

Harry felt metal scrap against metal, but the more gratifying feeling was how the kinslayer’s clavicle broke under the force and the accompanying shriek of torment. Hooking him behind his neck Harry cast the man towards Obara, who earned her song at the tip of her spear.

The last became a berserker at his brother’s death. He swung his sword wildly and with abandon. Reason had left him, only his need for vengeance and blood drove him. And the Ironborn was strong, but his grief and anger made him stupid. One overswing of his sword and Harry had him.

Harry ducked, letting the steel sing over his covered head. And when he rose, his hatchet was high, arching, and came down upon the Ironborn’s head like a tidal wave. Steel caved in the man’s skull and it exploded in gore. He kicked the lifeless corpse away, jerking his axe back. When he saw that the body did not move, that was all the attention Harry paid it.

His gaze turned to Obara. When he saw she was fine, Harry gazed to the youngest. The boy’s eyes were wide with disbelief at his brother’s betrayal. Anger faded from him and all Harry was left with was pity. Kneeling, he closed the boy’s eyes and hoped he found peace in the afterlife…his next great adventure.

“My lord!” Harry looked to see Lord Penrose, just as covered in blood and sand as he, jog up to him. “They are retreating, what are your orders?”

“Harry! Holy fucking hells!” Came Robert’s voice, booming with anger and concern. Harry stood for his brother, who came with a visage of pure fury. Robert held him at arm’s length and he frantically searched him from head to foot, his hands hastily pulling at the arrows still attached to his armor. When he was clean enough, Robert embraced him. Well, given how hard he squeezed Harry wasn’t too sure the man was not attempting to kill him. “By all the gods, are you alright?”

“I can’t breathe…” Harry wheezed.

“What?” Robert released him and turned to the crowd. “Get me a fucking maester! Now!”

“Robbie...” He gasped.

“Do not act the big man with me! You just said, you couldn’t breathe!”

“Cause you were trying to break my ribs!”

“Oh…” Robert trailed off, before he reared back indignantly. “Serves you fucking right! What the hells were you thinking?”

“I do not get you.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I don’t fight at Harlaw, you are disappointed. I fight here, you are disappointed. I simply cannot win.”

Under his helm, Robert’s face turned so many shades of colors Harry thought the man could be a metamorphmagnus. When he looked ready to have conniptions, Harry put his hand on the man’s shoulder, “Breath, Robert, breath.”

“I’m…breathing…”

“Like a bull…breathe like a normal human being. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

“It’s not working…” His brother said after a few tries. “I’m going to go hit something with my hammer.”

True to his word, the king stalked away from them before Harry could get another off. Any movement on the ground, the twitch of an Ironborn body, Robert raised his hammer and ensured it moved no more. At the sixth body, Lord Caron asked his cousin Dennas, “Do you think the proving quarter or a man will be flogged applies to him?”

To which cousin Dennas was swift to reply, “You want to tell him that?”

“Well, I thought since you were cousins, it would be your duty to.”

“We aren’t that close.”

Harry ignored them. Men often became strange after battle. It was the adrenaline. When it drained, the brain supplied large amounts of dopamine and could produce symptoms that included short term hysteria. At least, that’s what Harry decided to tell himself.

“Where did the Ironborn retreat to, Lord Penrose?”

“The Northeast corridors. Though, having never been inside Pyke, I cannot tell you what passageway leads where.”

“Have the men clear the Southwest corridor. Set guards at the major entrance ways and stairs, find the largest open hall they can, and ready it as a trauma center. Gather what medical supplies we can.” Harry turned to where more men went to fight and die. Their screams where not too far or at least they screamed loud enough that they sounded near. “It will be needed soon.”

“At once, my lord.”

When the lords took off, he turned to his friend who had been enduring her pain in silence. A rare feat considering Obara was anything but silent…ever.

“How’s your arm?” He asked, unsure of what to say in situation such as these.

“It fucking hurt.”

“Hm…” Harry took her arm in his hands and slowly lifted and rotated it, pointedly ignoring Obara as she grunted and glared death at him. “It’s dislocated.”

“You don’t fucking say.” She spoke through her teeth.

Harry rolled his eyes. Taking off the scarf around his neck, he rolled it thickly.

“What are you going to do with that?” Obara asked.

“Bite.” He ordered.

“What? No! It–“ whatever she had planned to say next was but off when he stuffed it into her mouth. And, whatever she was going to do next was cut off when Harry grabbed her arm and popped it back into place. She glared and screamed, and though she wasn’t really coherent with the gag in her mouth, Harry was sure Obara was spewing very unflattering things about his ancestors and parentage.

“You son of a bitch!” She managed to spit out the silk cloth.

“It was going to happen. I did not need to hear you protest that you were fine.” Harry excused his actions.

“I wasn’t going to say I was fine.”

“Then what was all the protest for?”

“There’s blood all over that thing!” Obara jutted her chin at the fabric, which was no doubt soaked and stained with blood. However, considering the circumstances, it was the best that Harry had to work with.

“Would you preferred this?” He held up the hatchet handle, which was also dirtied with blood, bones, and bullshit.

“I’d have preferred something fucking clean!”

“Clean? Since when have you been the delicate little flower?” Harry teased, helping her to her feet.

“Delicate little…shut the fuck up!” Was her clever reply, before turning stonily silent. Harry just shook his head and walked alongside her as they trailed behind the wake of the lords Harry had instructed.

It was only a few minutes before Obara opened her mouth again, not nearly as loud with her words as before. “Thanks for saving my life back there.”

Harry smiled, wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“Thank you for saving mine, my friend.”

OoOoOoOoO


	9. Chapter 9

This is one of those chapters, but I thought it was needed. I hoped for more reviews considering how many people wanted this story back and it is the season of giving, but what can you do...

Hope you guys like it.

The story should be picking up speed in a chapter or two.

Read & Review.

~Cheers

289 AC – Pyke – Room of the Sea Throne

There was power and pleasure to being king, but that was all paid for by hardship and headache. The appeal of war to Robert was to be away from the dreary annoyances of ruling. His hammer in hand, another man coming at him, that was where he was most at home. Not abiding courtly manners and espousing wise counsel to those in need. And, that was perhaps the worst thing, there was always fucking someone in need. He was happy to sail to Pyke to be away from all that. To be away from his harpy of a wife for a few months was just a fucking joyous bonus.

And maybe it was the Mother or the Maid, but the gods laughed at him in the regard. Less than a moon and already they were done. Oh sure, Robert had bloodied his hammer smashing heads and caving chests, but life mocked him by bringing him full circle. Because he hid away from kingly duties and yet there he sat on Balon's Sea Throne, listening to high-born lords spit back and forth on what they believed justice was.

Balon, the sorry sod, knelt at the bottom step. Even then, beaten and surrounded by more swords than he had teeth, the Ironborn lord had enough nerve to glare at Robert. And, as insolent as it was, Robert could respect it. He would be no different.

The representative for the Riverlands, Lord Mallister of Seagard, nearly frothed at the mouth at his turn to speak. They had been attacked by the Iron Fleet and though repelled, blood spilt called for blood in return. Blood and gold was what the man wanted, felt he was entitled to.

His good-father, Tywin Lannister, was representative for the Westerlands, another kingdom that was attacked. The city of Lannisport was all but completely sacked and the entirety of the Lannister navy was sunk to the bottom of the sea. Anyone who had heard the song 'Rains of Castamere' wouldn't even have to guess what he wanted done. Because the song was true. Though old, the lion's claws were still sharp and long.

Lastly was Ned Stark, Warden of the North. Good, old reliable Ned. Even before the man opened his mouth, Robert knew what his old friend would counsel. Allow Balon and those who share in his treason to take the Black. A very middle of the road, lukewarm approach. They would be punished without being truly punished.

Robert did not know how Harry did it. How he spoke so softly, so kindly, yet still slapped people around with that tongue of his. He could not wait until Harry finish growing, had heirs aplenty, so Robert could pin that badge upon his chest, cast this burden upon his shoulder and free his hands...which were more suited to holding bosoms that the reigns of Seven Kingdoms.

Speaking of Harry…

"Where is my brother?" Robert turned to his squire. The boy had nothing else to do, so he charged him with receiving reports of Harry's every waking move. If Harry used the privy on the north end, Robert wanted to know about it. If Harry was fucking some serving girl in a stairway, Robert really wanted to know about it.

It irked him to no end that his brother had no sin in his heart. There was no greed, no lust, even when Robert asked him what he wanted to compete at Lannisport Harry did not request anything for himself. It was entirely too irritating, like an itch in the back of his eyes.

But that was a worry for another time.

"Last I heard, he was in the banquet hall in the southwest corridor, Your Grace." His squire said.

"Where he tends to the wounds of Ironborn." Lord Mallister grumbled.

To his credit of a lesson learned, Ned ran a hand over his face, his eyes closed, and the heaviest sigh left him. The sort that came from the very center of his very being. He knew what Robert was going to do and he was dissatisfied that he could do nothing about it. It wouldn't stop Robert, but it comforted him to know he knew his friend so well.

"Not to mention, this is an area for learned men. Young Hadrian may have proved himself in the arena of combat, but combat and politics are two different beasts." Tywin added his opinion.

And just like that, Robert's anger was replaced with amusement. He couldn't help how his imagination strayed, contemplating a scenario of Tywin and Harry debating; a fencing of words as it were. He did not know if Harry would win such a contest. Tywin a great deal older and as such, would have more experience. What Robert did know, was that it would be fun to watch the Old Lion turn every shade of the rainbow and everything in between. Harry had that effect on people who tried to wrestle words with him. If Robert were truly lucky, the old man's heart would give out.

"Go get him." Robert instructed with a shark-tooth grin.

"Are you sure, Your Grace?" Ned asked, stepping closer so that he may speak softer. "He had a harrowing day upon the beach, perhaps it would be better for him to remain in the familiarity he has made for himself."

"You're right, Ned. My brother has had a troublesome day." Robert nodded, patting his friend's shoulder in thanks for reminding him. "Boy…after you are done getting my brother, tell him to make his way on his own and fetch me a cloth for my hammer. Ned, have your men guard the boy. Dangerous halls these are…"

"Your Grace?" Ned and Lancel asked, respectively anxious and puzzled. His friend knew his mind and his squire…Robert only need to see his reflection in Ned's armor and see the manifestation of what lay in his heart. A smile so sharp it could cut Valyrian steel and eyes halfway to lunacy.

They had reason to worry. The day was not yet done and the butcher's bill not yet tallied.

"While you are out and about searching for a cloth worthy of my hammer…bring me every Stormlord and their closest kin."

OoOoOoOoO

289 AC – Pyke – Southwest Banquet Hall

As impossible as it seemed, more screams filled his makeshift clinic than had the battlefield. To the letter, his men had found the largest hall in the southwest corridor and prepared it as best as they could to receive the wounded. And as large a hall as it was, only a hundred cots filled it, and every cot was occupied, with men still lining along the walls and down the hall in either direction.

The first step to Balon's plan was to kill the maesters that his father had allowed on the island, meaning that Harry only had four maesters who knew how to triage beyond bandaging and prayer. Well, he would've, had those maesters not eyed him as if he asked them for their souls.

The knights and lords who had stood with him lowered themselves and acted as nursemaids. They brought clean cloths, soaked those that were dirty, and held down men as they writhed and screamed in agony. One would think that with as belligerent as the Ironborn were there would be an abundance of herbs and poultices lying about and they could not be more wrong.

This is what he hated about war. The killing was easy. Killed or be killed. A rabbit could understand and do what was necessary if pushed to the edge.

It was after that Harry hated. It was fathers crying over the dead and broken bodies of their sons. It was young men, who could've had so many more years in front of them, screaming for hours only to silently, blankly stare into nothingness.

"My lord," Harry turned to the voice, seeing the young Lannister who squired for his brother. The boy was almost…cute in his red brigandine, a sword on his hip. He doubted Lancel had slain a single soul in his life. Harry envied him for that to a point.

The boy was used to the world they were in and gave no thought to those dead and dying around them, other than the odd, mild cursory glance. Harry wasn't sure if it was ignorance or arrogance. He didn't even know if he really wanted to know.

"Yes, Lancel?" Harry forced a smile on his face.

"His Grace requests your presence in the throne room." The young boy bowed.

As loathed as Harry was to abandon his patients, he knew he'd have to. And, if he were being completely honest with himself, a part of him wanted to; if only to get away from the woes of the tormented for a moment.

It was a selfish thought Harry knew. He was healthy and whole, fully capable of helping. Well, not much given that Pyke had almost nothing in term of medical supplies, but at the very least he could give comfort and at most do what little he could.

Another piece of him wanted to leave just to wrap his fingers around Balon's throat. He wanted to squeeze and squeeze until horror and fear filled the old man's eyes, watch as life slipped away. A selfish and self-gratifying want, but in a strange way it pleased him that he was still tempted. It served to remind him that his advanced age and the world he found himself in had not turned him sour, jaded, and cynical.

"Lead the way then." He nodded, doing his best to not look at all the people who still needed his help. Harry knew that if he did, he would end up making his brother wait much more than would be consider appropriate. And the last thing he wanted was for Robert to come to the clinic. It was no place for a man like him.

"Um…well…His Grace bid me fetch him something else. But, if you travel along the northern corridor towards the east you will no doubt find him." That sounded like something Robert would do, send a squire on some meaningless task, but Harry was suspicious. The boy could not meet his eye and hopped from foot to foot like he was standing on a bed of coals. Finally, his scrutiny must have been too much, for Lancel bowed lowly and beat a hasty retreat. The boy's back was already to him and he half way out when he said, "my apologizes my lord! I go about my task!"

"What business do you have with Lannisters?" Obara asked, slithering between cots. She was in remarkably good spirits considering her arm was in a sling. She hadn't even protested or made comment when he informed her that she was to take it easy on her shoulder for a few weeks, until he was sure that it had healed properly.

That could be the not-dying factor or it could be that she was going to ignore him. Either way, Harry was just happy that out of all the things that he to deal with, her normally brutish behavior was not one of them. But, even as she was, Obara held her spear in hand, her short sword on her hip.

"My brother's squire." Harry informed her. "I've been summoned."

"That…man," the word oozed from her tongue as if she were spitting poison, "has been doing a lot of summoning. Does he need you to fight another war for him?"

And now, Harry had a conundrum. What was he to do with Obara? The woman was injured, but he doubted it would stop her temper should someone ignite it…like the many Lannisters that filled the hall and cots. Yet, there was no telling what she would do or say around his brother. Harry doubted that even with their similar attitudes, they would get along. It was highly more likely that Obara and Robert meeting would undo all of his hard work in improving Dornish relations with the Crown.

And, yet…

"Come along, Obara." Harry said, turning on his heels and making for the door.

"Do you no longer fear the possibility of my rude and indelicate behavior?" She snarked, but did as he bid.

"Oh, no, I break out in a sweat at what you may say or what Robert may force me to stop him from doing," Harry admitted with a lightness he did not feel nor match the severity, "but I have faith that you will not shame me."

"Your brother is a known whoremonger, a drunk, and you worry about me shaming you?" The insult in her tone was as plain as day, just as was her skepticism. Harry stopped in his tracks and tilted his head at her…disagreement with him.

"My brother's vices have no bearing over me, for they are his vices," Harry said, "however you are my Shield. The day I took you on, you became an extension of me. Anything you do reflects me."

"How do you figure that?" She asked.

"Think on this," Harry placed a hand upon her shoulder, "Your uncle and father were nowhere near the Red Keep when your aunt was killed–"

"Murdered." Obara interjected.

"Murdered," Harry did not fight her on her insisted truth, "all that is known is that the Mountain killed her. But, is it not said that Tywin gave the order? Is that not what your father and uncle believe? There is no proof that he did, yet they believe it because…"

"Are you comparing me to that-" She built up a head full of steam at the very comparison and could have probably spent the day listing obscenities.

"No," Harry stopped her, rolling his eyes at the only thing she seemed to hear, "but just as the Mountain's actions reflect on Tywin Lannister, your words and actions reflect upon me."

She did not look happy at his words. But they were the truth and he never shied from giving that to her. It was his measure of respect to her as an equal and Harry believed she knew that.

"Fine," She groused, "but do not expect me to gush and grovel."

"I only expect you mind the same manners anyone gives their king." Harry smiled, content with her compliance.

"You mean except you." Obara pointed out as they continued their walk.

"Yes." He acknowledged shamelessly.

She scoffed at his brazenness, but said nothing as they trekked through the gray and dreary halls. They walked past several dark corners and twisting stairways, even managed to nod politely to some Northmen who walked as if patrolling sentries. It was so far that the screams of the dying were no more than a faint echo. Harry knew they had traveled far enough when a guardsman stood outside, bearing his brother's banner.

He offered the man a friendly nod as he walked by and into the room. It was as dreary as the rest of the castle. The salt of the sea had come and laid claim to almost every inch of stone, just as did the green moss. Even the throne his brother sat upon was…well it looked more comfortable than the Iron Throne, but certainly not something Harry would want to sit on if his people relied on him making good decisions.

People said that the old Targaryen kings made the chair so uncomfortable because no king should rule in comfort, but Harry thought that was stupid. Sitting on an uncomfortable chair for hours upon hours in the day was just going to make a man cranky and then, he'd be prone to making dumb decisions. Or at least angry ones.

"You called for me?"

"Yes, yes, we decide on the fate of Greyjoy and his ilk." Robert explained. "I have heard from the Riverlands, the Westerlands, and the North, but I would hear your counsel?"

"If it were up to me?" Harry asked, stepping up until he was besides the kneeling Balon.

"Yes, how would you punish this treasonous worm." Robert urged.

"Call me what you will, but I am no traitor." Balon spat. "No Greyjoy swore to a Baratheon."

"Then, that would be my first order." Harry said before casually adding, "after which, I would take away everything you hold dear."

Almost every man in the room eyes lit up like dogs at a whistle. All except one.

"You propose the man bend the knee only to be executed?" Lord Stark asked, disbelief tinging his every word.

"Who said anything about execution?" Harry asked, looking down to meet Balon's glare. "That would just reinforce your beliefs, wouldn't it, Lord Greyjoy? We fought, we won, and to kill you would affirm the Iron Price. If it were up to me, why would I give you that satisfaction?"

"Speak the punishment you think I deserve and be done with it, boy! You will not hear me beg for mercy!" The Greyjoy spat.

"Mercy implies forgiveness through deservedness or graciousness. I have spent the better part of the day tending to the wounded. The wails of the dying and indeed the howls of those who are kept alive to suffer are burdens even to my ears."

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping it would alleviate the pressure threatening to split his head open. When it did not, Harry opened his eyes wide at Balon. The man scowled and glared, so in return Harry smiled widely and said, "So, no, I wouldn't give you mercy Balon. Even if you did beg. You assuredly don't deserve it and I have hit my quota on graciousness."

"Your sentence then?" Robert asked.

"Balon will bend the knee, forswear reaving, thralldom, and the Iron Price. Give true repentance for his ways and that shall forgive his debt to the Crown." Harry said.

"Forgiveness for repentance? I thought you were not for mercy." Tywin curled his lip contemptuously.

"There are worst fates than death or is death the only thing you fear?" Harry zoomed his gaze unto the Old Lion, daring the man to contradict him.

"And what of the towns and ships he and his band of miscreants have destroyed?" Tywin bypassed. "Are we to allow bygones to be bygones?"

"Of course not. Only a moron would think so, don't you think Lord Tywin?" Harry put absolutely zero effort into concealing his eyeroll. If the man wasn't going to give Harry the respect of making his derisiveness subtle, then either was he. "They should give themselves to the labor of fixing what they broke. Bound labor to Seagard and Lannisport, for both the city and the ships lost. But the Ironborn took to raiding because they could do nothing else. What good would it do to take from people who already have so little? Nothing. Nothing but make them even more desperate, give them less to lose."

"So we give them something so they fear losing it?" Robert asked confused.

"In a way." Harry spun and stared down at Balon, "They will be indentured servants to those they have harmed. The Ironborn are sailors, regarded by some as the best to ever set upon the seas, an ability they have used towards ill, but will now turn to good. They will set upon the open seas as fishermen and traders, ferrying the men of Lannisport and Seagard like glorified palanquin bearers. What is a fair number of years Lord Mallister, Lord Lannister?"

"For the rest of his days!" Mallister was quick to exclaim. Tywin, the crafty old lion he was, took a moment more to measure his reaction.

"Thirty…one for every ship lost at port." The Warden of the West said.

"Seven then." Harry blithely ignored the man. He had expected something harsh. Reasonable, but harsh. However, thirty years of servitude for an entire people was tantamount to slavery for a generation. And Harry was no slaver.

"How'd you come to seven from forever and thirty?" Robert quizzed.

"It is as good a number as any. Not so long as to be a generation, but not so short as to insult those who lost their lives." Harry answered.

"Is that the carrot, boy?" Balon grunted.

"The carrot is, that you and your people get to live." Harry said.

"Is that the stick then? If it is, you have a weak hand and less spine than a snake."

"No, my lord. I come at you with no stick," Harry knelt in front of the man. He wanted the Greyjoy to look into his eyes and know without a doubt, that his words were true. That he meant every single word.

"If I come for you, Balon, it will not be with a stick. I will come bearing fire. Because if any Ironborn strays from this, if any Ironborn steps so much a toe out of line – it could be some tragic accident orchestrated by the gods I don't care – I will reap every soul. Man, woman, child; human and animal. Nothing will be left alive after I rain down enough wildfire to turn your Iron Islands into nothing but glass."

The room became a graveyard. The twitch of a mouse's whiskers could have been heard. Balon grit his teeth together, perhaps only half convinced that Harry would do as he stated, but it was still some part of him that did believe or he would not be shaking in anger.

"If it were my choice, that is." Harry stood and gave the man his back.

Lancel appeared at the door. The young boy gave no more than a single nod before Robert stood and addressed them.

"I believe this fair. And, to ensure your obedience, your son shall be fostered with Lord Stark of Winterfell, so that he may learn honorable ways. Do you accept or not Balon?" He asked in a hurry.

"What is there to accept?" Balon spat. "The choice between destruction of my people's history and culture or genocide?"

"Not your history, my lord." Harry spoke, much softer and more pleasant than before. "It will be important for those that come after you to know why you came to ruin. Your culture and religion will do."

He was surprised the old squid's teeth did not shatter at how hard he grit and ground them.

"Decide now, Balon. Decide which hall the Ironborn feast and drink in tonight. Your own or your god's." Robert stood imperiously, hammer at his side.

"I accept." Harry had a feeling the man would rather drink wildfire than say those words. It was only the continuation of his line or perhaps the possibility of going against his word later that stayed him from accepting death.

"I'm glad you see reason, Lord Balon." Robert's smile grew wide as he helped the man to his feet and embraced the man roughly. "Go and drink and feast. You will understand if I ask that you and the other Ironborn remained unarmed, won't you?"

Leave it to Robert's gregarious nature to be able to embrace an enemy right after trying to bash his brains out.

"I understand…Your Grace." Balon looked like he had swallowed his tongue.

"Excellent. Go man, I will join you later and we can tell tales of better battles and better times. I'm afraid I have other matters of ruling to attend to."

"You have my full hospitality…Your Grace." Again, the Greyjoy looked ready to vomit out his heart, but managed the words with a hint of grace. Well, as much grace as Ironborn ever cared to have.

Before he made it past him, Harry grabbed the man's arm. "I hope that one day, you will understand and perhaps even appreciate why I did what I did, Lord Balon. But, in case you do not, please know…I am a man of my word."

Harry did not like the man's reply, before tugging himself away and stomping out, "You may have to be."

The Greyjoy lord was hardly outside into the hall when joviality vanished from Robert and he bellowed like a war-horn, "Send the pond-scum sucking heathens in!"

Harry already did not like how the situation was developing. The Stomrlords, many being forced in bodily by Northmen and some at sword point by hedge knights, staggered into the hall like men to the gallows. They had certainly looked better. A few had – what Harry was sure would be testified to – fell down the stairs.

A few dozen flight of stairs.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lord Mallister probed.

"Stormland concerns my lord," Harry answered, already knowing the subject about to be broached, "perhaps it would be best if you joined in the celebration. Begin to put bygones with the Ironborn behind you."

"Pardon?" Lord Mallister seethed.

"You are excused, my lord." Harry said casually.

"You dare–"

"Lord Mallister, my brother speaks as he always does – rudely – but he is correct." Robert's rough voice cut in. "This is a matter of the Crown and the Stormlands. Thank you for your time, but it is not needed here."

"But–"

"Thank you for your time." Robert stressed. Harry hoped the man would leave. He did not like the smile upon his brother's lips. It was far too murderous.

Harry let out a breath he had held when the Lord of Seagard, although pouting like a toddler, whirled with his cloak and stomped out of the room. Tywin Lannister followed shortly after giving a bow that barely passed courtesy. Harry did not like the man's look at him as he walked past, like a lion licking his chops.

"Dare I ask the meaning of this?" Harry could not help but sigh. He should have expected it. Truly, he should have.

"I bring grievance to you, the acting commander of the Stormlands, regarding your men." Robert spoke as casually as he may, but the way he spun his warhammer in his grip put Harry one edge.

"And what grievance do you have?" He knew the answer, but Harry had taken special care to ensure that all he had done was legal.

"Treason." His brother answered simply.

"Then let me assure you, these men have committed no treason." Yes, he could feel Obara's glare burn into the back of his head. Not that it was needed, he knew her feelings on the matter. "They have followed your command to the letter."

"Yes," Robert nodded before smiling a shit-eating grin, "but what is more important, the letter or spirit of the law?"

Harry would not have been more surprised if his elder brother had slapped him. Of all the things to say, of all the times to one up him, Robert had to choose then. It was like some cruel fucking joke.

"Of all the things you remembered father say, it is that which you chose to remember now?" His question was so dry jerky was wetter.

"It is not all I remember," Robert sulked, "but it is the most useful for this."

"Robbie…" Harry sighed.

"Bah!" Robert threw his hands into the air, before lobbing his warhammer unto his shoulder, "I know already what you will say. And though it sickens me, you are my brother and I love you dearly. If you ask me show mercy upon these men, I will grant it…as much as it fucking pains me."

"It is my wish that you grant them mercy." Harry said easily.

"Really? Not even going to think about it? At least pretend to roll it around in your mind." Robert pinched the bridge of his nose.

Harry cupped his chin with a hand, squinted his eyes, and shifted his weight from foot to foot before staring at his brother, "Happy?"

"You could at least pretend sincerity. I did say it pained me. Have some sympathy." His brother groused.

"Robbie…" Harry sighed.

"I'm just saying."

"Robert."

"Fine, fine." Robert sighed, before finding a man in the crowd. "You are first, Lord Swann."

"What?" Harry questioned, blinking owlishly.

Lord Swann was ushered towards Robert by two knights. He was afraid, but managed to make his legs move…sort of. And when he came to stand, held still by two knights, in front of the King, Robert weaved his hammer, swung it slow and steady, so that Lord Swann knew that he meant to go for the family jewels.

"Robert…what are you doing?" Harry asked as if it was not obvious.

"I'm granting the man mercy. Treason is punishable by death. This isn't going to kill him, but it will give him a reminder he will never forget." Robert said as if the man whose balls he was going to send hurtling towards his brain was not in the room.

"I'd hate to ruin your delusion, but if you shatter his pelvis…that will most likely kill him." Harry replied dryly.

"I'll chance it." Robert shrugged, taking a few more practice swings, even going so far as to widen his stance and give the crowd a shimmy.

"Robbie…"

"He had enough balls to abandoned his commander, to defy the words of his king, they must be made of steel. He will be fine." Robert attempted to assure him.

"Robert!"

"No!" His brother's voice thundered and with a madness all those who knew love possessed, all those who had something they cherished more than their own lives had, Robert swiveled his heated glare upon Harry, "No! Fuck no! No! No! These…vile…abominable…disgraceful fucks! They dare disobey me! These fucking wretches sneered and jutted their chins as if righteous, as better men fought and died! I want retaliation! I want retribution! I want fucking reckoning!"

Robert no longer cared about making a show, he didn't care to see the fear in the man's eyes. He grabbed Lord Swann, the man's tunic threatening to tear in Robert's white-knuckled grip. With the strength legendary to their name Robert threw the man on the ground, the sound of Lord Swann's skull deliriously loud, and raised his hammer high into the air with a furious roar.

"Wait!" Lord Swann managed through his dazed gaze, his arm automatically coming up and crossed over his face. As if that would save him.

"Would not killing him be too gentle a punishment?" Harry quickly asked, knowing he would have to change his strategy. His brother stayed himself. Barely.

"What do you mean?" Robert's chest heaved at the giant breaths he took and his eyes were wild as he turned to look at Harry.

"Would not allowing him to live be a greater punishment?"

Robert's eyes narrowed suspiciously. The man wasn't buying it and Harry had to admit, this was awesomely stretching his sway over his brother.

"You have until my arms tire to say your peace," Robert said, glaring a warning towards the Stormlord beneath him, daring the man to move an inch, "then the hammer will drop, whether you are finished or not."

"Okay, this I have to hear." Obara chimed in as she lazily leaned against her spear, a grin just as crazed as Robert's stretching her cheeks. "Even you can't be that good."

Of all the times to want to hear him talk, it was when the likelihood of him saving a man and that man being turned into pudding were equally likely. It was as if she were deliberately looking for a miracle.

"If you end him here and now, that is all you will have." Harry started.

"I'm not seeing the downside." Robert deadpanned. "You better get to it little brother, this thing it getting heavy."

Harry knew he was lying, having only held his hammer for a handful of seconds, but he hurried his 'explanation', "If you allow them to live, they will have to live with their shame for the rest of their days."

"Things like him have no shame." Robert spat.

"Do not allow your anger to cloud your judgement, Robert. Think about it." Harry said, all the while hoping and praying that he could weave his words into an enchantment as magical as his spells, because nothing less than the miraculous would stay his brother from perhaps starting another war.

"And there spill the sands of the glass." Robert said.

"They will always wonder!" Harry stepped forward. "Isn't that torment?"

"Wonder what?" Robert roared back. "How they should have slithered out of their mother's legs than grow into the...curs that they are!"

"Not quite how I would put it." Harry muttered to himself, "But, yes. Every hall they enter, every banquet they attend, they will do so to titters, whispers, and sneers. They will forever question if the hushed words passed behind maids' hands and the polite smiles of lords are only poorly hidden scorns. For all time, they will be known as the 'Poltroons of Pyke'."

Robert's hammer drifted slowly down. Down and down it went until it's heft rested against Lord Swann's chest. And as if the weight were too much, Lord Swann's ribs dipped in relief, the man's head thudding against the stone floor.

A small reprieve, but Harry would take it.

"I know this is a trick. I know you are twisting and weave your words to hypnotize me. I have seen you do it many times with Maester Cressen by the time you were four. I will not fall for it." His heart dropped into his stomach at Robert's word. Harry thought for sure the Stormlords would meet a gory end, when his brother surprised him. "However, for you to attempt as much tells me that this means a great deal to you. I will grant you a few more words before I judge."

"Thank you for listening to reason rather than anger, Robbie." Harry smiled proudly.

"Oh, no." Robert pushed down on Lord Swann's ribs. "I'm beyond incensed and will most likely start cracking skulls any moment, but your attempt to save them is amusing."

"Oh, come on!" Obara hissed, crushing her skull against the wood of her spear. Harry shot her a glare, but ultimately ignored her. There would be time later to lecture.

"There are not enough tourneys in a lifetime for them to recover their honor. No woman would grant them favor or wear their Crown of Love and Beauty. There will be no lord who would take their sigils upon the lists. Lords and Knights would rather withdraw than waste lances on such disgraces." Harry continued to tap dance.

"Continue." Robert's grin became even more vicious, more vindictive if that were possible.

"Their sons would be ridiculed, none would even bother consider fostering, or betrothal, and even the poorest hedge knights would not take all the gold of Casterly Rock to make them pages. Their wives would be the gossip of the sewing circles in every keep, women of every generation would look upon them with nothing but sorrow and sadness, and wonder how they had not died from shame." Harry stretched.

"And?" His brother salivated.

"Is that not enough?" Harry could not help but ask. The men would be publicly disgraced, their names forever held in disrepair. What else could they take other than their lives?

"It's not." Robert knelt his entire weight on the spiked-end of his hammer...and Lord Swann under it.

"What more can they give?" He asked, exasperation plain at the knowledge that his brother would not budge.

His brother searched, leaning deeper onto his hammer. All the gods bless his soul, Lord Swann did not wiggle, squirm, or issue a peep. His life hung by a very thin, delicate thread. So much as a twitch and it could be over.

"Taxes." Was the simple answer.

"I doubt any man here would object to such. Take what you will." Harry waved his brother on.

"Twenty-fold–"

"Robbie, be reasonable. A tax that high and they will die." Harry sighed.

"Fifteen-fold…"

"Robbie…"

"Ten-"

"Robert!"

"Oh for the sake of the Seven!" Robert threw his arms up, Lord Swann covering his face wisely, "Fine! Five-fucking-fold! That is my final word!"

Harry nodded his assent, releasing his held breath. Sweet Merlin he was tap-dancing a jig that would set a stone floor aflame. If he were a different person, all the effort may not be worth it. As it was, Harry questioned why he was trying so hard to save men who had made their bed.

"A portion will go to Renly, as their liege-lord, to pay for their being godsdamn-fucking disgraces!" Robert literally spat a gob of snot in the Stormlander's direction. Harry did not think it the time to remind him of their mother's lesson on etiquette. Because even when set upon going on a rampage, one had to do so with class.

"More than fair, isn't it my lords?" Harry smiled a forced, pained smile. He hoped they got the message to smile and nod along with him. Only a few got the meaning. It was a small and tender mercy they had the decency to keep their fucking lips together.

"One part to the Crown for sparing their lives. A part to the lords who fought alongside you. Loyalty should be rewarded after all. And, lastly, the last two to you. That is not negotiable," Harry took his own advice and clicked his teeth together, stifling his knee-jerk reaction to protest. "One for their abandonment and another for being the only fucking man I know who would beg me to fucking spare them!"

Robert swung hard and low, the metal of his hammer sparking off the stone floor. Luckily, that was all that came from the floor and Lord Swann was still in one piece. His brother was apparently still upset.

The Stormlords were even much more worse for wear. Harry could swear almost half of them were about to faint. Though he supposed he could understand. They abstained because of their greed for spoils and instead they would be giving spoils to those who had set that greed aside.

Talk about fucking irony.

It was all Harry could do not to burst out in hysterical laughter.

"What do you say is proper recompense for the hedge knights who fought with you?"

"It is your reward." Harry shrugged, but to ensure that his brother made it fair, he added, "what is my life worth to you?"

"I will not even start low and work my way up until you agree," Robert heaved a sigh, his eyes rolling until they saw his brain. Then with a snap of a finger, his eyes lit up, "I've got it!"

Harry was worried. A small, rebellious part of his brain was thinking Robert would take the lord's lordships from them and bestow them upon hedge knights. While, as King, he could technically do it, it was much harder than just saying the words. And, it could very well lead to another war.

Thankfully, it was not that.

"You men stood side my brother, shielded him against the Ironborn. So too will I give you a shield. Circular as the Dornish prefer, so you will always remember what you did for my brother, who will be a Prince of Dorne," It was charming that Robert conveniently forgot what he thought of the Dornish when Harry was concerned, "And it shall be made of Dragonbone, worth a hundred times its weight in gold, so you shall know that what you did was dear to me. On their faces shall be tales of glory and triumph in gold, so that you will remember when you are old and gray your own glories and triumphs."

The lords who abstained turned bone white at the announcement. Dragonbone was prized and valued in all its shapes. From brooches to war-bows, it was the middle ground between gold, gems, and Valyrian Steel. It was just another thing they could've had, but was withheld from them.

The hedge knights being granted such an splendid gift, Harry expected to be grinning like a Cheshire cat. Yet, they solemnly bowed their heads, minutely at that, in thanks. He expected at least one to whoop or holler. With that one shield, each of the thirteen had just become quite wealthy.

"Fine gifts," Harry gave a singular nod before wrapping his arm around his Robert's broad shoulders as best as he was able, "Now let us put all this ill business behind us. The war is won, Balon is defeated. Let us celebrate and drink and be merry."

"There you go again, attempting to lead me about by the nose," Robert rolled his eyes, "I know you would rather be among the suffering in your clinic. You don't need to humor me, Harry."

They both knew that was a lie. Robert would have loved it if Harry humored him. His brother would have loved nothing more than to sit, laugh companionably with Ironborn and Greenlander alike, and tell war stories with beautiful buxomous women on their laps. But, he was right about Harry.

"I will join you later tonight." He said apologetically, before slapping his brother on the back. "Save me one or two."

"Wine or women?" The King said with a lecherous grin.

"We both know the answer to that." He snorted a laugh.

"Well, I shall save you both anyway. In case you change your mind," Robert insisted. "You are a man now! Men fight! Men fuck!"

Harry had been doing well in leading his brother by the arm towards the hall. Each Stormlord they passed had him walking lighter, breathing easier. It was almost done, his brother almost out into the hall with wine and women on his mind, when they stopped and like a lightning strike, Harry's hackles rose and he smelt ozone.

"You, girl. What is your name?" Robert asked.

"Obara Sand." His Shield and friend managed to make the grinding noise that came from her throat sound…passably…polite.

"Sand? A bastard?" Robert snorted.

"Prince Oberyn's daughter. Taught by his own hand in the ways of the spear." Harry interjected, also wedging himself between them.

"Hmm…a bastard girl as your Sworn Shield." Robert shook his head, looking as if wanting to say more.

"She saved my life out there today, Robbie." Harry defended his friend. At the same time, he grabbed Obara's thigh and squeezed as if trying to touch her bone. "Obara is a bastard and a woman too, I cannot say different. But I will challenge any man who says her unworthy or undeserving of her position…any man, Robert."

"Of course you fucking would." Robert rubbed his head in frustration. "Well? Every man has been given his due. You put your life in danger for my brother, saved his life by his account, a task that I cannot put a price on. Name your prize and if I am able, I will grant it."

Obara wasted exactly zero seconds before opening her mouth. Automatically Harry knew that it was not going to be anything…acceptable. Apparently, the muscle crushing grip was not enough, so Harry rolled on the balls of his feet before setting all his weight on his heels, which happened to be on Obara's toes. The farthest she got was, "I want nothing from you–"

Harry knew there was some sort of expletive just about to jump off the tip of her forked tongue. He warned her with a wide-eyed stare over his shoulder. It was a look she knew well from how many times he had to beg her to keep herself in check.

"I…was…doing…my…duty…" He was grateful she managed that much. It wasn't eloquent, it certainly didn't sound pretty, and her face looked like she was birthing a giant, but she did it.

"Good," Robert gave a nod, not at all lost in that Harry was muzzling Obara. "my brother may be the most stubborn and obstinate person I know. But you can learn much wisdom from him. I am over a decade older than he and even I learn things."

"That doesn't surprise me." Obara grinned for only a second before Harry twisted his heel over her toes. "I meant…my uncle is twice that old and even he learns a thing or two."

"So do older men than that." Robert chuckled. "Worry not about rewards, Sand…they will come."

Harry took his foot off Obara's, but rocked it up and down so that she would know that it was always an option. And people said he was willful and suicidal.

"Enough of this!" Robert exclaimed. "If my brother will not help me empty this keep of wine, I will need others! Who is with me!"

With that, the King and his men made their way into the hall, full of good cheer, the not so distant past a very distant memory. He thought he could be at peace, but that thought was quickly put to rest.

"Fucking really?" Obara shoved him off her foot. "Was that necessary?"

"Yes." He didn't even try to make excuses. They both knew what was what. There was no need to lie. Placation maybe but not lie.

"I suppose you expect gratitude now?" came a voice Harry was becoming much too familiar with. Turning, he saw the heated hatred in Lord Errol's eyes and was mystified.

The point between his eyes throbbed like war drums. He had to repeat the mantra of what they were in his head. Old as they were, children they were. Children who ranted and raved their tantrums because they thought they knew so much, when in reality only knew so little.

For the Stormlords knew as much as their tiny circle allowed them to know and nothing was done purely out of altruism, nothing done for the sole reason of kindness. It was all maneuvering, plotting and twisting and Machiavellian schemes.

Such stony hearts for men who were aloft all others. Harry did not remember much about his father, Steffon Baratheon, but he did not remember the man being so jaded. Perhaps, it was just a sign of the coming times.

The chilling and biting coldness.

Still, even knowing that, Harry held unto hope. Perhaps, it was the romantic in him. The romantic who believed in good for the sake of good and that if not all, then at least most men could change. It was a hope that the change was for the better.

"If you do not know the answer to that, my Lord Errol, then you truly have not been listening." Harry shook his head with a heavy sigh. "What I have done you is not a nicety."

"Surely not," The man spat, "you have taken food from the mouths of our families. You have stained our name for a slight which you told us would bear no consequence."

"There are always consequences, Lord Errol. Every action is met with reaction. Such is undeniable reality of life." Harry said.

"It was implied." The Lord of Haystack Hall growled.

"It was not."

"You said-"

"Do not seek to lay your inadequacies at my feet!" A smidgeon of his repressed feelings leaking through. "I gave all of you a choice! A choice to be good men! To do the right thing! It is no fault of mine that you are bereft of the nobility you claim!"

He advanced on the man; one, slow, incensed step after another. And he was not alone. Obara, damaged but deadly Obara, the Houses and the hedge knights who stormed the beach beside him, stood with him then, their swords, spears, and polearms brandished dangerously. It was at that moment life, chance, or fate had saw fit to bestow common sense into the lords, for they could not backpedal fast enough. The threat of death hung over them again like a guillotine and they seemed to remember that they only lived, they only drew enough breath to gripe, because of him.

"Even now, when it is time for you to reap the toxic harvest you have sown, I offer you life. I beg and I plead and I bandy words to stow away my brother's rage, and you still have the gall to spit upon me!" He thumped his torso with both fists.

Harry could feel the power within him. The hot fire in his chest that promised to forcibly garner their respect. A worst thought was that he didn't even have to dirty himself. At a command, a different sort of power, Harry could have their heads, the heads of their kin on a pike, and no one would say anything against him.

And, it would be so easy to just give in. Allow himself to be consumed. A word, spell or command, and there would forever be a tale of example on the lips of men. But like a siren's song or a veela's allure, he resisted the yearning.

There were fewer times than then that he wanted to give in, but he didn't. Because he was not those men. Whether Harry Potter or Hadrian Baratheon, he would not do what was easy. He may not always do right, but he would at least try.

And dealing with those men was certainly trying.

That was why he said nothing more. Harry whirled about, silken robe whooshing around in a way that would have Snape taking notes, and walked away. He did not trust his tongue to not drip with words of vengeance like venom.

"If we are so lacking, then why did you spare us?" A voice that was thankfully not Errol's asked. Harry didn't even care who it was, just that it wasn't that crusty, old...perhaps, he was not one to comment on age.

Harry gave them one last lesson, one he hoped they would take with them if they took nothing else.

"Because dead man cannot be taught more than once."

OoOoOoOoOoO

She had expected a monster. With all the stories her father had told her, for all the hatred he had of the man, Obara expected Robert Baratheon to be a blood-thirsty demon hiding in human flesh. She was sorely disappointed.

He was just a man. A drunk and whoremonger perhaps, but no more or less a man than anyone else. A man who loved his brother just as she did, just as she loved her own sisters. Just a man.

Obara still hated him. A seething hatred that could have seen her executed or thrown in a cell if not for Harry's intervention, but the infamy of Robert Baratheon was shattered in her mind. He was just another man capable of monstrous deeds. Such a common thing. Nothing as special.

It was her hatred of him that saw her alone in a room she commandeered. Harry spent many hours in Pyke's clinic, but eventually went to do as he promised and share a cup or two of wine with the King. Obara didn't trust herself to drink so close to Harry's brother. Too much downed, as usually was in a celebration, and they would either be pulling her hands from around the King's neck or his from her own. It was safer for her to just steal a large jug or two and drink by herself in the room her and Harry would share.

They may have fought alongside her on the beach, but Obara still did not trust the Stormlanders. They were fierce enough, and the hedge knights followed Harry like pups, but Obara was weary. She could not bestow unto them something as important as his safety.

However, the solitude was a double-edge sword. She was away from the temptation of kingslaying, Harry was safe by the side of that very same king, but the silence chipped away at the façade she had upheld. It brought to the forefront of her mind that she was failure.

The battle had started as gloriously as she imagined. They few against many, Harry shining so brightly, and she ever faithful at his side. Granted, Dorne was not with them, but she did not need Dorne. It would've been nice, but she had all she needed.

They charged forward with abandon, unheeding of the Stranger. She protected him, shielded him from harm, until he predictably outpaced her. Shorter than her Harry was, but quicker than a desert cobra too. And he killed just as effortlessly beautiful.

Before she was even met on the field, Harry had killed two with just as many swings of his sword. He was on his third when Obara had clash with her first; a boy eager as she, but his stature much too short to challenge her. He came in hot and hard, eager to have her. But it was he that ended up fucked on the tip of her spear.

Perhaps Obara should not have been so premature with him. They say you never forget your first time. Perhaps she should have savored it, made it something special to remember. As it was, she was in and out of him, past him long before he had laid to rest.

Her second was not any more memorable than her first. If anything, even less as she did not even remember his face. Not that they had much of when she caved his skull in with the edge of her shield. It was what came after that would forever be engraved into her soul.

It wasn't the man himself, though he was strapping. It was the axe that struck her shield like a lightning bolt. It was her, Obara fucking Sand, on her back looking up as he attempted to finish her. And as the flash of steel rained from the sky upon her, Obara desperately fending each blow away...it had been a long time since she had ever felt so helpless. She would forever remember that feeling; the helplessness, the caress of the Stranger on her shoulder as whispers of the defeated and damned slithering through her ear and into her mind.

That brought about her shame. Not the dying. Obara could go on knowing she had died doing her duty. There was honor in that. Her shame was that her charge was the one to save her. Even more scorching to her pride was that he had almost died because of it.

Harry had thanked her for saving his life, but that was her duty. That was her purpose beside him, the purpose of any shield, to protect. It was not the warrior's purpose to throw himself upon the shield. Yet, Harry did. And the more Obara drank, the deeper into the cups she fell, the more she wished he had just let her die.

How could she ever hope to reach for the stars, to dream her dream, when she could not even protect him from the rabble of Pyke? What right did she have to protect him when it was her who seemed to need the protection? He protected her from his brother, from Ironborn, and even from herself.

What good was she?

Before she could delve deeper into her depressing madness, Obara was saved...yet again.

He walked in with a toothy smile, his cheeks the slightest hint of rose. She doubted he was too gone, but he had clearly imbibed as he promised. Thankfully, his steps were still light, straight, and sure.

"Why such a sour expression, my friend?" Harry asked, plopping down on a chair next to her. "Do you miss the opportunity to celebrate with others?"

"Fuck them." Obara muttered. "Stormlanders, Westerlanders, Northmen, what need I of their piss-poor company."

"What troubles you then?" He leaned in. "We've had battle, glory, and no doubt a harrowing story to tell all of Sunspear."

"Yes…we do." She nodded woodenly.

"Is the wine not to your liking?"

"It's fine."

"Have you eaten?"

"I'm fine. You are not my mother, quit nagging me." Obara grumbled.

"Are you ill?" He raised his hand to her forehead.

"Just fucking stop trying to take care of me, Harry!" She blurted out harsher than she intended, slapping his hand away much more cruelly than he deserved. "By all the fucking gods, it is I who is supposed to protect you!"

"But of course," He tilted his head confused, "and you have done well."

Even then he came to her defense. Even when she was the one to scorn herself. His moronic comfort. Why could he not just be angry with her. Yell at her. Cast her aside. It was more than she could take and the jug of wine in her hand paid the price, its life shattering against the stone wall as she jerked up from her chair and hurled it with all her anger.

"Peace, Obara. Be at peace." Harry said, calm as the evening breeze, as he stood smoothly after her. His whispered consolation slithered over her skin like a balm and when he made her turn towards him, made her meet his gaze, his hand cupped her cheek with a gentleness she had not allowed herself to experience since…Obara had forgotten when. "What vexes you my dear friend?"

"I have failed." The words managed to rasp passed, the bricks of shame around her neck constricted her throat.

"Who sets such accusations against you?" Harry besought.

"I do." Drunkenness or truthfulness, Obara was brought to her knees at the verbalized admittance. She did not acknowledge the wetness at her eyes as she looked up at him, his face twisted in concern. It may have been a stupid hope to hope that if she did not give them mind then they would not exist. "You almost died."

"We all could have died." He told her, an affability that did not belong tinting his words.

"Due to my inability?" She challenged right back.

"Due to war." Harry corrected.

"I care not about the others." She slashed the air with her hand. "It is your life that hangs so heavy upon my shoulders."

"And mine is no less weighted by yours. For you are dear to me, Obara. Far dearer than a shield can be worth to any man." He took her arms in his hands and with a strength that belied his build, lifted her to her feet. When her feet were steady, Harry busied himself with patting the dirt off her clothes before smiling at her as if all was right in the world, as if she had not almost let him die. "You did your best out there today, that is all anyone can ask of you."

"My best?" She whispered at first in shock, before exploding otherwise, "What fucking good is my best if I fail!"

"But you didn't." Harry shrugged so blithely.

"I almost did." She pressed him.

"But you didn't."

"But I-"

"But you didn't." He spoke, voice hard and tone brokering no further argument. But still, she was not satisfied. "I may have told you this before, but I shall tell you again. Only two things in life are fated; we live, we die. Nothing is above this truth."

"Yes, I know." Obara sighed in exasperation. There he went with his septon voice, preaching his truths. Positively fucking maddening. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"If we are fated to die, then we will. Not I or you or anyone else can change that. But, we did not, so do not pity yourself having lived. Do not lament what could have been. Think of what you could have done differently, so that you can do better next time." Harry instructed, leading her drunken form back into a chair.

Even in her seeping stupor, Obara knew it was as sound as advice could get. Yet, the dark recesses of her mind took no time at all to play the advocate for evil with a question that shattered that wisdom.

"What if I did all I could and still we fell?"

Harry replied as easy as he pleased, "Then we go knowing we did not go quietly into the long night."

"Answer for everything, don't you." She snorted, unable to fire anything else back at his words. Obara knew how it would go. She would say this or that and he would retort with this and that, and she did not the strength to pretend she was smarter than him.

"The day is old, my friend, and we a day older with it." Harry smiled, stroking the hair at the base of her neck. "Let us drink this wine, be merry, and slumber until late morning. We have earned it."

"I can't." Obara pulled away from him.

"Obara, I have just said–"

"No, not that," She interrupted him before he could go on with his preaching, "I meant I cannot sleep."

"Oh?" He questioned, much to her annoyance.

Instead of his septon hat, Harry had donned his Healer hat. She was unsure which was more annoyingly tedious. Obara grit her teeth together at his penetrating gaze, willing her lips shut to keep this one shameful secret.

Her will lasted almost a minute under his scrutiny. Obara wasn't sure if she should be proud or embarrassed by that.

"I cannot sleep."

"Yes, we have established that. I question why."

She saw him every time she closed his eyes. The Ironborn, not Harry. The killing was easy, she was excited for it even. Excited to prove herself worthy.

It was the brush with death that fraught her. Every time she closed her eyes, the man showed, and Obara feared that her failure at battle would be the last battle she was ever going to be in. That she would close her eyes and never open them, never prove that she was more than she was on Pyke. And there was more, worse beyond that, but she did not even dare grant that treacherous thought a moment's notice. If she so much as glimpsed into such darkness, it may very well swallow her up whole.

And it made her absolutely fucking ill to have that weakness.

"Can I not keep this one, Harry?" Obara pleaded. "Just this one and I will never keep another thing from you."

To his credit, Harry only waited a few breaths before nodding his acquiescence, "Very well, but you still need to sleep."

"What do you suggest?" She asked, knowing his mind had started working the problem the moment she had admitted what was wrong.

He said nothing, merely smiling his mysterious little smile before walking into the hallway. Obara thought him gone, thought to go searching for him when he returned, his smile no less prevalent or gentle or kind. He took the jug from her and took a long pull before handing it back.

Harry made his way behind her. He took her braided, knotted hair in hand and began to gently undo it. More gently than any man should have the ability to. Even her father had never done that to her.

She wondered if he was trying to seduce her. Her cousin had already given her blessing and if Obara were honest, if he was seducing her…it would not be so bad. She had never felt so special as in that moment of him working the tangles from the strands of her hair with his fingers.

She could have stayed there all day and all night, when the door to their room opened. Obara attempted to jerk up, but Harry held her down with ease. She blamed her loose muscles and the wine in her veins.

The hedge knights walked in hauling a wooden tub, giving them their privacy, their only acknowledgement a nod of their heads and a clearly reverent 'lord' as greeting.

Young serving girls walked behind carrying buckets of water, the steam still floating in the air. Their eyes went to Harry, even those that were years older than her. And perhaps not with her entire permission, a growl emitted from the back of her throat and she flashed her teeth and gripped the sword at her side. It brought her no end of amusement how they scurried.

Arianne gave her permission, not some serving girl. And love her, her cousin did, but even that love had limits. Allow Harry to be spoiled by some serving girl and all the piety and familial love would not save Obara. Innocent her cousin may look, but the young woman was as treacherous as a fucking sand trap.

"Stay." Harry said.

"I'm not a pet." Obara sulked.

"No," he laughed, "A pet would be more obedient than you or I."

She couldn't disagree, so relegated herself to pouting.

He took the buckets of hot water and poured it into the tub, then opened the small pouches. Each contained small flowers or leaves and Harry expertly went through them, smelling each one before taking a handful and crushing them into the water. He stirred the bath for a moment, allowed it to settle, then took a bucket full of water from it.

Her eyes almost popped out of her head when he so casually disrobed in front of her. Stark fucking naked, after he had neatly folded his clothes. She wasn't adverse or shy, but a part of Obara felt as if it was wrong to look upon his nakedness. Guilt and shame began to rear up again at the bruises where arrows must have knocked the breath from him, the small gashes and cuts that told the stories of his battle glowed vibrant blues, purples, and reds.

He took a cloth, soaked it in water, and set about washing himself. It was almost ritualistic, the way he went about it. So simple, so elementary, and yet she was entranced as he went about his rite. She wondered if this was what poets tried to capture when telling tales of women so beautiful they took men's breath away.

When he was finished, Harry wrung out the cloth and poured the bucket out the window. He walked about, completely comfortable with himself and it was slightly disappointing when he took a long strip of clothing that was prepared for him and knotted it around his waist like a skirt. He was half-naked, dripping wet, and standing before her like some harem boy.

Her cousin would die in envy.

"Come." He instructed, hand reached out towards her.

Why she did as he bid, Obara didn't know. There was nothing about that day that she would be able to explain well. Perhaps it was just because he asked nicely, or maybe because she wanted a bath. She didn't think she would ever truly know, nor did she care to. But go to him she did, taking his hand as he gave it to her.

His hands were slow, but sure as they undid her robes. Heat crawled up her neck as he pushed them off her shoulders, the skin of his hands skimming along her arms. He moved in closer to help her out of her clothes and he was the perfect height to put his lips to her breasts, her nipples hardened under his warm breath.

But he did nothing and she was so utterly confused by it. Obara did not know if she should be embarrassed, aroused, shy, or what. Her thoughts went round and round, allowing Harry to just pull her this way and that. Though he did no pulling. Instead, he did with her as he did with himself, taking handfuls of water and lathering her before wiping away the dirt and grime.

It was easily enough to tell Harry had experience with such things. Though where he would get it puzzled Obara. It was not the surgical cleaning of the invalids at the clinic, but it was not sexual or seductive either. There was care and love, but chaste.

When he was done washing her, Harry took her hand again and eased her into the tub. Partially submerged, Obara began to understand. The scent slowed her heart, even though the heat from the water made it want to race, and it resulted in the most heady feeling.

Harry guided her back, until her neck touched the tub and softly tilted her head for her. With his hand he took the perfumed water from the tub and poured it over her hair and after each handful, he ran his fingers to smooth the tangles and allowed all her hair to smell pretty.

She didn't know how long they were there, only that the water was slightly more the lukewarm when Harry had decided they were finished. Helped her out the tub, wrapped her nudity, and set to drying her hair and braiding her hair. And neither of them said a word for nothing needed to be said.

Obara did not know peace such as this was possible. The quiet and tranquility of how he laid beside her, thought smaller than she, it was still Harry to hold her head to his bosom. Though he was no mummer or his voice so beautiful, he still sang old Rhoynish songs to lull her. It was comforting even if she could not understand it.

And she could not sleep because of it. It was too damn peaceful. Obara was a creature of anger and passion and fury.

"Harry?"

"Hm?" He paused long enough in his song to ask.

"It's too peaceful...I cannot sleep."

"So you wish for me to give you something to grumble about?" Harry's chuckles rumbled against her ear. She said nothing, unsure if it was pushing some limit to say 'yes'. "We are going to Lannisport in seven days' time."

Ah...there it was...that niggling feeling that was always at the back of her mind. That anger that was just simmering just below the surface. And all was right with the world.

Harry hummed and sang, and Obara grumbled until she slept.

She still dreamt and of battle too. But it was as it should be. They looked terrifically terrifyingly monstrous in black scales and golden plate, and they rode beautiful pale brutes that had a long, curved horn on their heads and wings of a thousand eyes. Shields and spears in hand, they raced towards their doom with an insulting audacity for the Stranger. It was as it should be.

Fucking glorious.


End file.
